•     ,          -  . 


LA  ...    "   .•'::-.  LO  -     ;  IS 

,  NTIS  H  GOLD 
".  .  E  SEARCH  PA1 
3  H  E  SIMPKINS  PL(  ] 


;  ^    ;  •  •:  *    •   • 

^      '  ,  >.    ,  ;     ..  •-  .  , 


c      c     •  -  .? 


THE   SEETHING    POT 


BY 

GEORGE  A.  BIRMINGHAM 


SEVENTH  IMPRESSION 


NEW    YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 

1913 


TA    ME   AG   TABHAIRT   AN    LEABHAR  SEO 

DHUIT 
A  BHEAN-UASAI,  MO  CHROIDHE. 


2065730 


THE   SEETHING   POT 


PROLOGUE 

THE  December  afternoon  darkened  rapidly  over  the 
crowd  which  had  gathered  round  the  court-house  door. 
Inside  the  gloom  prevented  men  from  seeing  each 
other's  faces,  and  lights  were  sent  for  before  the  last 
act  of  the  day's  drama  commenced.  Two  candles 
were  brought  and  set  upon  the  table  before  the  judge. 
They  illuminated  the  papers  which  lay  before  him, 
made  his  robes  and  wig  visible,  and  even  cast  a  few 
straggling  rays  upon  the  face  of  the  prisoner.  The 
rest  of  the  court  seemed  only  darker  for  their 
presence. 

1  Gerald  Geoghegan,'  said  the  judge,  '  you  have 
been  found  guilty  of  taking  up  arms  in  open  rebellion 
against  your  lawful  Sovereign,  Queen  Victoria,  in  this 
her  kingdom  of  Ireland.  Your  crime  is  one  which  in 
an  ignorant  peasant  might  move  our  pity,  might  be 
found,  perhaps,  to  have  some  shadow,  not  of  justifica^ 
tion,  but  excuse.  But  you  are  a  member  of  a  Church 
which  has  always  inculcated  loyalty  upon  her  children 

1 


2  THE  SEETHING  POT 

as  a  sacred  duty,  and  taught  the  sinfulness  of  rebel- 
lion. You  have  enjoyed  the  advantages  of  an  educa- 
tion which  should  have  shown  you  the  folly  of  the 
attempt  which  you  have  made.  You  are  a  member 
of  a  class  whose  traditional  boast  it  has  been  that 
they  are  England's  garrison  in  this  country.  In  your 
case,  therefore,  there  is  no  plea  to  be  urged  in  pallia- 
tion of  your  monstrous  crime.  I  sentence  you  to  be 
hanged  by  the  neck  until  you  be  dead,  in  the  market- 
place of  this  town.  I  direct  that  your  body  be  cut 
into  four  by  the  common  hangman,  the  portions  after- 
wards to  be  disposed  of  in  accordance  with  the  pleasure 
of  Her  Majesty.  May  the  Lord  have  mercy  upon 
your  soul.' 

They  led  the  prisoner  away. 

It  had  been  a  poor  business  at  the  best,  the  rebel- 
lion of  Gerald  Geoghegan.  He  had  led  a  dwindling 
band  of  half-starved  peasants  among  the  by-roads  of 
Tipperary.  He  had  fired  upon  a  police  patrol.  He 
had  surrendered  himself  to  a  country  magistrate. 
That  was  the  whole  story.  It  was  saved  from  being 
a  subject  of  laughter  for  the  nations  only  by  the 
ferocity  of  the  judge's  sentence.  For  a  few  days 
Gerald  Geoghegan  hugged  the  consolation  that  at 
least  he  was  to  be  allowed  to  die.  In  the  end  even 
this  was  taken  from  him.  His  sentence  was  changed 
into  one  of  transportation  for  life.  He  sailed  for 
Australia  in  a  convict  ship,  the  last  and  the  most 
ineffective  of  the  long  line  of  those  who  have  drawn 
the  sword  for  Ireland. 


THE  SEETHING  POT  3 

His  brother,  Sir  Thomas  Geoghegan  of  Clogher, 
heard  of  his  exile  without  a  word,  and  received  his 
last  letter  without  reading  it.  He  had  disowned 
Gerald  when  he  first  declared  himself  a  member  of 
the  Young  Ireland  party.  He  determined  after  the 
fiasco  of  the  rebellion  not  to  speak,  and  if  possible 
not  to  hear,  his  name  again. 

Australia  proved  a  kinder  land  to  Gerald  Geoghe- 
gan than  Ireland  had  been.  It  had  no  wrongs  to 
lure  him  into  desperate  politics.  He  worked,  and  as 
an  old  man  reaped  a  harvest  for  his  toil.  A  farm 
prospered  with  him.  A  gentle  wife  helped  his  old  age 
to  slip  peacefully  away.  A  younger  Gerald  grew  up 
to  be  a  hopeful  boy  before  the  end  came  for  '  Geoghe- 
gan the  rebel.' 


1—2 


CHAPTER  I 

WHEN  Sir  Giles  Geoghegan  died,  his  title  passed  to  his 
cousin  Gerald,  who  lived  on  an  Australian  farm.  The 
estates  and  the  personal  property  went  with  the  title, 
because  Sir  Giles  had  been  more  or  less  imbecile  all 
his  life,  and  no  one  had  ever  urged  him  to  make  a 
will.  The  news  of  the  inheritance  came  as  a  surprise 
to  Gerald  Geoghegan.  His  father  had  never  talked 
much  about  his  Irish  relations,  and,  although  Gerald 
had  somehow  gathered  that  he  belonged  to  a  family 
of  which  there  was  no  need  to  be  ashamed,  he  was 
quite  unaware  that  he  stood  next  in  succession  to  the 
baronetcy  and  the  Clogher  estate. 

It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  he  made  the  journey 
from  Melbourne  as  quickly  as  possible.  It  seemed  to 
him,  in  spite  of  all  he  could  do,  to  be  interminable. 
In  London  his  excitement  rose  to  fever-heat,  and  even 
when  at  last  he  seated  himself  in  the  Irish  mail,  he 
fretted  with  impatience.  For  Sir  Gerald  Geoghegan 
was  young,  barely  five-and-twenty,  and  the  prospect 
of  taking  up  the  position  of  a  great  landed  proprietor 
and  a  very  wealthy  man  is  one  which  might  shake 
the  equanimity  of  a  gray-haired  philosopher.  He  had 

4 


THE  SEETHING  POT  5 

one  fellow-traveller  in  his  compartment,  a  thin,  sharp- 
faced  man  whose  clothes  and  figure  suggested  a  groom. 
Sir  Gerald  spoke  to  him,  because  in  his  excitement  he 
could  not  remain  silent. 

'I  suppose  this  train  runs  pretty  punctually  ta 
Holyhead.' 

The  other  man  looked  up  from  his  paper. 

'  Yes ;  and  the  steamer  is  punctual,  too.  You  will 
be  in  Dublin  at  five  o'clock.' 

As  he  spoke  he  looked  steadily  at  Sir  Gerald.  His 
face  developed  curious  tangles  of  wrinkles  round  the 
eyes  and  mouth,  and  he  ceased  to  look  like  a 
groom. 

'  I  think  I'm  safe  in  guessing,'  he  added,  after  a 
pause,  '  that  you  are  an  Irishman.' 

'  I  suppose  I  am,'  said  Sir  Gerald — '  at  least,  my 
father  was  ;  but  I've  never  set  foot  in  the  country  in 
my  life.  What  made  you  think  I  was  Irish  ?  I  can 
hardly  have  inherited  a  brogue.' 

'  Well,'  said  the  other,  *  I  have  studied  human 
types  a  bit.  I  guess  wrong  pretty  frequently,  but 
when  I  see  a  man  with  a  narrow  head,  deep-set  eyes 
that  are  nearly  black,  straight  dark  hair,  a  figure  and 
hands  like  yours,  I  can't  be  far  out  in  saying  "  Irish- 
man." I'll  go  further  if  you  like,  and  say  you're  a 
Celt,  and  a  Connaught  Celt.  Am  I  right  ?' 

'  I  dare  say  you  are.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  don't 
know.  I'm  going  to  Connaught,  anyhow — to  Mayo — 
and  I  call  it  going  home.' 

'The   type  has  a  wonderful   way  of   impressing 


6  THE  SEETHING  POT 

itself  Your  people  may  have  married  Englishwomen 
for  generations,  or  they  may  have  been  English 
themselves  and  married  Irishwomen.  It  makes  no 
matter.  The  Celtic  type  is  the  dominant  one.  It 
works  itself  into  any  strain  and  stays.' 

'  You  seem  to  know  something  about  Ireland,'  said 
Sir  Gerald. 

'  Well,  I  ought  to,'  said  the  other.  '  I've  done 
nothing  all  my  life  but  think  about  Ireland  and  talk 
about  Ireland — chiefly  the  latter.  Let  me  introduce 
myself.  My  name  is  Desmond  O'Hara.  I'm  the 
editor  and  owner  of  The  Critic.' 

He  drew  himself  up  as  he  spoke,  and  the  wrinkles 
gathered  with  extraordinary  thickness  over  his  face. 

'Oh!'  said  Sir  Gerald.  'I'm  very  glad  to  meet 
you.' 

'You  don't  seem  to  be  much  impressed,'  said 
O'Hara,  and  it  would  have  been  hard  to  tell  whether 
he  was  offended  or  amused  by  the  vagueness  of 
Sir  Gerald's  tone.  '  Perhaps  you  don't  read  The 
Critic.  You  ought  to  if  you  are  an  Irishman.' 

'  I've  never  come  across  it,  but,  you  see,  I've  lived 
all  my  life  in  Australia.' 

'  That's  no  excuse.  I've  several  readers  in  Australia 
— three,  I  think.  Anyhow,  you  can  begin  to  read  it 
now.  The  Critic  represents  the  intellect  of  Ireland. 
It  aims  at  bringing  all  the  people  in  the  country  who 
can  think  into  touch  with  each  other.  The  price  is 
twopence  a  week,  but  I  give  it  for  a  penny  to  anyone 
who  can't  afford  more.' 


THE  SEETHING  POT  7 

> 

Sir  Gerald  smiled. 

'  I  dare  say  my  finances  will  stand  the  regular  sub- 
scription,' he  said. 

'Good,'  said  O'Hara.  'Then,  you'll  subscribe  regu- 
larly. I  can't  think  why  on  earth  people  are  fools 
enough  to  buy  my  paper,  but  quite  a  surprising 
number  of  them  do.  It  isn't  worth  twopence,  you 
know.  It's  nothing  on  earth  but  talk  spread  over 
paper  in  big  print,  and  very  poor  talk  at  that.' 

'  I  thought,'  said  Sir  Gerald,  '  that  you  represented 
the  intellect  of  Ireland.' 

'  I  don't  know  who  you  are,  but  you  ought  to  be 
aware  that  there  is  no  intellect  in  Ireland.  From  the 
Provost  of  Trinity  in  his  hall  to  the  farmer's  daughter 
behind  the  dunghill  there  is  not  one  single  individual 
that  can,  properly  speaking,  be  said  to  think.' 

Sir  Gerald  began  to  suspect  that  he  had  stumbled 
upon  a  lunatic,  but  O'Hara's  laugh  reassured  him. 
It  was  an  eminently  sane  and  wholesome  laugh. 

'  Don't  look  so  serious,'  he  said.  '  That's  only  one 
of  my  tricks,  designed  to  produce  thought.  I  printed 
that  remark  in  The  Critic  about  three  months  ago. 
I  had  just  recovered  from  influenza  at  the  time,  and 
felt  depressed.  By  the  way,  if  I  am  to  send  you  the 
paper,  you  must  tell  me  who  you  are  and  where  you 
live.  "Celt,  Connaught,"  would  hardly  find  you, 
though  you  are  a  type.' 

'Gerald  Geoghegan — I  mean,  Sir  Gerald  Geoghe- 
gan' — he  reddened  as  he  made  the  correction — 
'  Clogher  House,  County  Mayo.' 


8  THE  SEETHING  POT 

1  Surely,'  said  O'Hara,  '  you're  not — I  didn't  hear 
that  poor  Sir  Giles  was  dead.  You  must  be  the  son 
of  Gerald  Geoghegan  the '  He  paused. 

'  Of  Gerald  Geoghegan  the  rebel,  you  were  going  to 
say.  You  needn't  have  hesitated ;  I  am  not  ashamed 
of  my  father  or  of  anything  he  did.' 

'Ashamed!  Indeed  I  should  think  not.  You 
ought  to  be  puffed  up  with  pride  in  such  a  father. 
He  was  the  last  great  Irish  gentleman.  You  know 
his  story,  of  course  ?' 

'  Yes,'  said  Sir  Gerald  :  '  he  told  it  me  himself  out 
there,  before  he  died.  He  said  he'd  been  a  fool.' 

'  Of  course  he  was  a  fool,  as  we  count  fools.  A 
man  is 'a  fool  to  set  up  a  few  starved  peasants  against 
the  power  of  England ;  but  that  kind  of  fool  is  the 
only  thing  worth  being  in  the  world.  Don't  think 
I'm  advising  you  to  go  and  do  likewise.  The  thing  is 
not  to  be  done  that  way  now.  We've  got  on  to 
a  new  track.  We're  working  out  salvation  another 
way.' 

'  Tell  me.  I  want  to  know  about  Ireland.  You  see, 
I'm  going  to  live  there.' 

'  This  train  only  takes  six  hours  to  get  to  Holyhead. 
After  that  I  shall  tell  you  nothing,  for  I  shall  be 
infernally  sea-sick.  I  always  am.  No  mortal  man 
eould  explain  Ireland  to  you  in  six  hours.' 

'Tell  me  something — tell  me  what  an  Irish  land- 
lord ought  to  do,  and  how  he  ought  to  live.' 

The  task  suited  O'Hara  exactly.  The  Critic  was 
accustomed  from  time  to  time  to  wander  into  the 


THE  SEETHING  POT  9 

regions  of  archaeology  for  a  week  or  two.  Sometimes 
several  numbers  were  devoted  entirely  to  folk-lore, 
or  the  industrial  revival,  or  the  Irish  language.  Once 
it  seemed  likely  to  turn  into  a  kind  of  almanac  for 
amateur  gardeners.  It  always  returned,  however,  to 
the  subject  of  landlords,  their  prospects  and  duties, 
their  sins  and  mistakes.  Its  true  position  was  that 
of  candid  friend  to  the  unfortunate  class  whom 
England  in  self-defence  is  being  obliged  to  squeeze 
out  of  existence. 

O'Hara  rubbed  his  hands,  and  began  : 

1  You  are  an  Irish  gentleman,  Sir  Gerald,  and 
therefore  one  of  the  natural  leaders  of  the  Irish 
people.' 

'Excuse  my  interrupting  you,'  said  Sir  Gerald, 
'  but  isn't  that  a  little  mediaeval — out  of  date,  you 
know  ?  Of  course,  I  may  be  prejudiced,  coming  from 
Australia,  but  I  always  thought  that  the  idea  of  a 
gentleman,  as  a  gentleman,  being  a  leader  had  quite 
passed  out  of  existence  everywhere,  especially,  perhaps, 
in  Ireland.' 

'  Now,  there  you're  mistaken  entirely.  Don't  you 
go  starting  life  in  Ireland  with  any  of  those  fine 
democratic  one -man's -as -good -as -another  notions. 
They  may  be  all  right  in  the  colonies.  They  are  good 
enough  for  trotting  out  at  election  times  to  the 
British  working  man ;  but  they're  no  kind  of  use 
in  Ireland.  We're  an  aristocratic  people,  and  we're 
loyal  to  our  leaders.  We  don't  set  up  to  be  inde- 
pendent sons  of  toil  or  any  nonsense  of  that  sort. 


10  THE  SEETHING  POT 

Unfortunately,  our  gentry,  our  aristocracy,  stand  out 
and  won't  lead  us,  so  we  fall  back  on  priests  and 
politicians.  Leaders  of  one  sort  or  another  we  must 
have,  and  we  ought  to  have  you  and  your  class.' 

•  WeU  ?'  said  Sir  Gerald.    '  Go  on.' 

O'Hara  went  on.  The  train  flew  through  the  mid- 
lands while  he  discoursed  on  the  part  the  landed 
aristocracy  ought  to  take  in  the  industrial  revival. 
He  sang  the  praises  of  Irish  manufacturers.  Clogher 
House  ought  to  be  furnished  with  Donegal  carpets; 
its  chairs,  tables,  and  sofas  could  be  made  in  Dublin ; 
linen  of  every  kind  must  of  course  come  from  Belfast ; 
the  floors  should  be  washed  with  Irish  soap;  the 
housemaid's  caps  could  be  best  stiffened  with  Irish 
starch.  Sir  Gerald  himself  ought  to  smoke  Irish 
manufactured  tobacco,  and  light  his  pipe  with  an 
Irish  match. 

'  A  man  like  you,'  the  editor  continued,  '  who  own 
a  great  estate,  and  therefore  pay  your  bills,  is  in  a 
position  to  bully  his  tailor.  I  can't,  of  course ;  I  can 
only  differentially  persuade.  But  I've  got  these  trousers 
made  of  Irish  tweed.  Look  at  them !' 

He  stretched  out  a  pair  of  lean  legs,  round  which 
a  yellowish  tweed  hung  despondingly.  The  material 
may  have  been  all  right,  but  the  garments  did  not 
advertise  the  merits  of  O'Hara's  tailor. 

'  You,'  he  continued,  '  ought  to  be  dressed  from 
head  to  foot  in  Irish  flannel,  Irish  tweed,  and  Irish 
socks.  What's  that  you're  smoking?  An  English- 
made  pipe.  Now,  to-morrow  I'll  show  you  a  shop  in 


THE  SEETHING  POT  11 

Dublin  where  you  can  get  every  kind  of  pipe,  from  a 
briar  to  a  meerschaum,  made  at  home.' 

During  luncheon  O'Hara  passed  on  to  the  question 
of  the  financial  relations  between  Great  Britain  and 
Ireland.  He  admitted  that  the  public  had  lost 
interest  in  the  matter. 

'  We  had  our  chance,'  he  said,  '  and  we  missed  it. 
All  the  same,  you  oughtn't  to  forget  the  fact  that 
England  is  robbing  us  systematically  of  three  millions 
a  year.  The  thing  is  as  plain  as  daylight.' 

It  may  have  been  plain  in  itself,  but  O'Hara's  way 
of  presenting  the  facts  tended  to  confuse  his  pupil's 
mind.  Immense  sums  of  money  had  a  way  of  trans- 
forming themselves  into  decimals  per  head  which 
bewildered  him.  A  conception  which  recurred  at 
short  intervals  in  the  editor's  discourse  under  the 
title  of  '  taxable  capacity '  gradually  lost  the  vague 
meaning  it  at  first  seemed  to  have,  and  mixed  itself 
hopelessly  with  other  things  called  '  standards  of 
value.' 

'  I'm  afraid,'  said  Sir  Gerald,  '  I  shall  have  to  read 
the  subject  up  a  bit.  I  don't  seem  to  master  it.' 

'  There's  not  the  least  necessity  to  master  it,'  said 
O'Hara.  'Look  here.'  He  seized  a  loaf  from  the 
attendant  who  passed  down  the  car.  '  Here's  a  parcel 
of  tea.  Here's  another.'  He  balanced  a  potato  in  a 
spoon.  'All  you've  got  to  do  is  to  go  round  the 
country  showing  the  small  parcel  first.  "This,"  you 
say,  "  is  the  amount  of  tea  you  get  at  present  for  two 
shillings.  This  " — here  you  show  the  large  parcel — 


12  THE  SEETHING  POT 

"  is  what  you  ought  to  get.  And  England  takes  the 
difference."  Why,  you  would  have  all  Ireland  at 
your  back  in  a  week,  and  be  in  a  position  to  dictate 
terms  to  any  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  who  ever 
framed  a  Budget.' 

After  lunch  the  two  men  returned  to  their  smoking- 
carriage,  and  O'Hara  started  afresh. 

'  Of  course  the  land  question ' 

'  Ah  !'  said  Sir  Gerald,  '  isn't  that  the  real  question 
— the  thing  that  matters,  I  mean  ?' 

'  Certainly  not,'  said  O'Hara.  '  The  land  question 
is  an  accident.  It  is  temporary.  It  might  be  settled 
to-morrow.  The  real  thing  is  the  nation.  We  must 
unite,  nobles  and  commons,  rich  and  poor,  to  pre- 
serve our  nationality,  to  prevent  the  complete  Anglici- 
zation  of  our  country.' 

'  But  union '  began  Sir  Gerald. 

'Now,  don't  interrupt  me.  I  know  what  you're 
going  to  say.  Union  is  impossible — conflicting  in- 
terests, and  that  sort  of  thing.  I  know  all  that,  and 
it's  not  true,  not  a  word  of  it.  Ireland  might  be 
united,  and  there's  one  man  who  could  effect  the 
union  if  he  chose.'  O'Hara  sank  his  voice  impres- 
sively, and  lifted  his  cap  from  his  head  with  a  certain 
reverence.  '  The  King,'  he  said. 

Sir  Gerald  opened  his  mouth  to  speak,  but  only 
gasped.  He  hesitated  between  the  laughter  due  to 
an  extravagant  jest  and  a  feeling  that  O'Hara  might 
be  in  earnest. 

'I    know   what    you're    thinking,'    said    O'Hara: 


THE  SEETHING  POT  13 

you've  got  the  usual  notion  of  the  King  as  a  sort  of 
glorified  head  of  the  Civil  Service.  Now,  I  dare  say  it's 
different  with  England.  The  Lord  alone  knows  how  an 
Englishman  likes  to  be  governed.  But  Ireland  can't 
be  ruled  by  cynical  politicians  in  Secretaries'  offices, 
or  noblemen  who  drive  four-in-hand  to  Punchestown 
with  pretty  wives  beside  them.  Ireland  wants  a  King. 
Give  us  a  King  to  love  us,  and  we  will  be  a  united 
nation  and  loyal — not  loyal,  mind  you,  to  that  system 
of  government  by  people  with  long  tongues  and  no 
consciences  that's  called  the  British  Constitution,  but 
loyal  to  the  throne  and  to  ourselves.' 

O'Hara  proceeded  to  demonstrate  from  history  the 
loyalty  of  the  Irish.  He  succeeded  in  giving  a  series 
of  curious  twists  to  established  facts.  The  names 
'  rebel '  and  '  loyalist '  got  tacked  on  to  quite  unusual 
parties.  Sir  Gerald  was  deeply  interested.  It 
appeared  that  various  heroes,  from  Silken  Thomas 
down  to  Wolfe  Tone,  whom  he  had  regarded,  not 
without  sympathy  and  admiration,  as  rebels,  were  in 
reality  the  only  faithful  servants  of  the  Kings  of 
Ireland.  Unfortunately,  just  as  O'Hara  had  reached 
the  point  where  Sir  Gerald's  father  attempted  to  alter 
the  course  of  Irish  history,  the  train  steamed  into 
Holy  head. 

O'Hara  sighed.  '  Good-bye,'  he  said.  '  I  shan't 
see  you  again.  I  don't  care  how  calm  it  is,  I'm 
bound  to  be  hideously  sick.  In  half  an  hour  my 
principles  will  have  given  way  to  the  wish  that  some 
English  engineer  had  succeeded  in  consummating 


U  THE  SEETHING  POT 

the  union  between  the  two  countries  by  building  a 
bridge.' 

'  Stop  a  minute,'  said  Sir  Gerald ;  '  I  want  to  see 
you  again.  Won't  you  give  me  your  address,  and  let 
me  call  on  you  ?' 

O'Hara  handed  him  an  envelope.  '  There's  my 
office  address.  My  house  is  away  out  at  Dalkey. 
Come  and  see  me  to-morrow.  I'll  take  you  to  a  show, 
if  you  like,  where  you'll  meet  some  of  the  intellect  of 
Ireland.  Good-bye;  I  must  hasten  to  find  a  place 
where  I  may  hide  my  shame.' 

Sir  Gerald  stood  awhile  watching  the  porters  hurry- 
ing on  board  with  mail-bags  and  trunks.  Soon  the 
steamer  slipped  from  the  pier,  and  the  wind  blew  the 
great  columns  of  her  smoke  flat  across  the  wavelets  of 
the  harbour.  For  a  time  he  watched  the  land  behind 
him  grow  dim,  and  then  turned  his  face  westwards 
for  the  first  glimpse  of  the  Irish  shore.  All  his  life 
he  had  dreamed  of  this  coming  home.  It  had  always 
been  as  home  that  he  had  thought  of  Ireland.  As 
a  child  he  had  wondered  vaguely  at  the  pathetic 
reverence  with  which  his  father  spoke  of  home.  A 
spiritualized  Ireland  was  associated  with  the  prayers 
and  creed  his  mother  taught  him.  He  had  listened 
to  his  father's  evening  readings  of  Mangan's  verses 
until  he  learnt  to  repeat  them  for  himself.  In  lonely 
places  he  found  expression  for  the  passions  which  fill 
the  souls  of  boys  by  shouting  aloud  Red  Hugh 
O'Donnell's  dedication  of  himself  to  the  service  of  the 
Dark  Rosaleen.  As  he  grew  older  his  father's  teach- 


THE  SEETHING  POT  15 

ing  made  him  familiar  with  the  hopes  and  ideals  of 
Thomas  Davis  and  the  Young  Ireland  party.  His 
day-dreams  were  of  a  return  to  take  up  the  dropped 
thread  of  The  Nation's  work.  He  had  pictured  to 
himself  a  life  spent  in  his  country's  service,  a  begin- 
ning in  obscurity  and  poverty,  a  rising  to  influence 
and  fame.  After  his  father's  death,  contact  with  the 
actual  conditions  of  life's  struggle  sobered  his  dreams. 
He  no  longer  thought  of  himself  as  one  of  Ireland's 
heroes,  but  his  love  for  her  remained  strong  in  him. 
Then  came  the  great  surprise  of  his  inheritance.  He 
realized  suddenly  that  he  was  indeed  to  return  to 
Ireland,  and  that,  not  as  an  unknown  adventurer,  but 
as  a  great  man,  the  owner  of  a  vast  estate,  the  bearer 
of  an  ancient  title.  Of  the  actual  Ireland  of  to-day 
he  knew  next  to  nothing,  but  his  old  dreams  came 
back  to  him,  and  on  the  voyage  home  he  found  him- 
self again  sketching  out  an  heroic  future.  Ireland 
was  spiritualized  once  more.  She  looked  for  his 
coming,  awaiting  him — '  The  young  deliverer  of  Kath- 
aleen-ni-Houlahan.' 

O'Hara's  talk  in  the  train  had  bewildered  and 
excited  him.  Already  the  service  of  Ireland  ceased 
to  seem  a  very  simple  thing.  He  was  vaguely  con- 
scious of  great  conflicting  interests  which  he  did  not 
understand.  Then  that  talk  about  the  King ! — that 
was  wholly  new  to  him.  It  made  a  certain  appeal  to 
the  romance  in  him,  and  yet  he  distrusted  it.  His 
father  had  not  taught  him  to  reverence  the  throne  of 
an  English  monarch. 


16  THE  SEETHING  POT 

After  the  arrival  of  the  steamer  at  Kingstown,  a 
friendly  fellow-traveller  pointed  him  out  the  obelisk 
which  marks  the  place  where  George  IV.  landed. 
It  seemed  a  perfect  refutation  of  O'Hara's  fantastic 
theory  of  loyalty,  tfcat  the  only  Hanoverian  monarch 
who  was  ever  popular  in  Ireland  should  have  left  his 
mark  upon  the  country  in  a  stone  monument,  and  the 
change  of  a  name  from  Dunleary  to  Kingstown. 


CHAPTER  II 

SIR  GERALD  determined  to  postpone  his  journey  to 
Clogher,  and  spend  a  day  in  Dublin  in  order  to  avail 
himself  of  O'Hara's  invitation.  He  looked  forward 
with  some  eagerness  to  meeting  Irish  intellectual 
people.  The  Young  Ireland  movement,  of  which  his 
father  had  been  one  of  the  leaders,  had  created  a 
genuinely  Irish  literature.  He  had  learnt  to  admire 
the  poetry  and  the  essays  in  The  Nation.  He  expected 
to  meet  the  men  and  women  upon  whom  the  mantles 
of  Davis  and  Mangan  had  fallen. 

He  arrived  at  the  office  of  The  Critic  early  in  the 
afternoon,  and  found  that  the  editor  had  not  yet  put 
in  an  appearance.  The  staff  of  the  paper,  which  con- 
sisted of  a  sandy-haired  young  man  with  a  Belfast 
accent,  was  endeavouring  to  brew  himself  a  cup  of  tea 
with  the  help  of  a  rather  decrepit  spirit-stove.  Sir 
Gerald  explained  his  business,  and  was  invited  to 
share  the  prospective  tea  with  the  utmost  friendliness. 
Mr.  Gamble — such,  it  appeared,  was  the  youth's  name 
— proved  to  be  a  most  entertaining  companion.  He 
combined  a  naive  worship  for  O'Hara's  literary  ability 
with  a  complete  contempt  for  his  way  of  doing  business. 

17  2 


18  THE  SEETHING  POT 

Sir  Gerald  learnt,  with  some  surprise,  that  O'Hant 
was  not  only  the  greatest  writer  in  Ireland,  but  the 
only  true  political  guide,  and  a  prophet  of  righteous- 
ness whose  genius  amounted  to  inspiration. 

*I  can't  write  a  bit  myself,'  said  Mr.  Gamble. 
'  Sometimes  I  do  commercial  articles  on  Irish  manu- 
factures, but  they  are  deadly  dull.  We  have  a  few 
other  contributors,  but  they  are  not  much  use. 
O'Hara  is  The  Critic  himself;  it's  only  his  writing 
that  makes  it  go.' 

Mr.  Gamble  was  not,  however,  at  all  inclined  to 
hide  his  own  proper  talents  under  a  bushel.  But  for 
his  incredible  exertions  in  the  matter  of  book-keeping 
and  attracting  advertisers,  it  appeared  that  O'Hara 
would  long  ago  have  found  himself  in  the  bankruptcy 
court.  He  got  down  a  ledger  with  a  view  to  giving 
Sir  Gerald  some  illustrations  of  O'Hara's  methods  of 
keeping  accounts,  when  the  kettle  suddenly  boiled. 
Two  cups  and  a  tin  of  condensed  milk  were  produced 
from  Mr.  Gamble's  desk. 

'  I  advise  you,'  he  said, '  to  have  tea  with  me  now. 
I  know  the  place  the  chief  means  to  take  you  to.  It's 
an  exhibition  of  Jim  Tynan's  pictures.  There'll  b© 
tea  of  a  sort,  but  it  will  be  cold  slop  before  you  get 
there — if  you  ever  get  there  at  all.  It's  a  mere  chance 
whether  O'Hara  turns  up  this  afternoon.' 

His  forebodings  in  this  respect  were  ill-founded. 
O'Hara  arrived  while  Sir  Gerald  was  finishing  his 
first  cup  of  tea. 

*  Sorry  to  have  kept  you  waiting,'  he  said.     'But 


THE  SEETHING  POT  19 

there's  no  hurry.  Finish  your  tea.  What  have  you 
been  doing  ?  Reading  back  numbers  of  The  Critic  ? 
No?  Well,  I  dare  say  you  were  right.  The  poor 
Critic  doesn't  look  like  its  old  self  a  bit  since  Gamble 
covered  the  outside  pages  with  his  beastly  advertise- 
ments.' 

'I've  been  hearing  your  praises  sung  by  your 
staff,'  said  Sir  Gerald.  '  You  seem  to  be  an  exception 
to  the  rule  about  no  man  being  a  hero  to  his  own 
valet.' 

'  Oh,'  said  O'Hara,  'he  may  praise  me  behind  my 
back.  I  wouldn't  thank  you  for  that  sort  of  praise. 
I  like  to  be  flattered  to  my  face,  and  abused — I 
suppose  we  must  all  be  abused  sometimes — when  I'm 
not  there.  Now,  Gamble  bullies  me  frightfully.  He's 
not  content  with  disfiguring  the  poor  Critic  with 
advertisements  of  soap  and  candles ' 

'  Irish  manufacture,'  said  Gamble  apologetically. 

'  I  don't  care  if  they  were  dug  out  of  the  Hill  of 
Tara,'  said  O'Hara,  '  they're  advertisements.  But 
that's  not  the  worst  of  it.  He  objected  the  other  day 
to  my  printing  the  same  article  three  weeks  running.' 

'  I  did,'  said  Gamble  firmly.  '  No  subscribers  in 
the  world  would  stand  it.  Besides,  there  was  that 
poem  business  just  before.  Lots  of  people  wrote  to 
complain.' 

1  The  poem,'  said  O'Hara,  '  was  an  unfortunate 
incident.  I  happened  to  be  in  a  particularly  bad 
temper  when  I  read  it,  so  I  published  it  with  rather 
cutting  comments  of  my  own.  When  I  read  it  in 

2—2 


$0  THE  SEETHING  POT 

print,  it  struck  me  as  rather  good  ;  so  I  waited  three 
weeks,  and  then  printed  it  again,  and  said  that  its 
rhythm  haunted  me  in  my  sleep.  No  one  would  ever 
have  supposed  that  it  would  be  recognised.  I  never 
knew  before  that  poetry  in  papers  was  read  by  anyone 
but  the  author.' 

Jim  Tynan's  pictures  were  exhibited  in  a  rather 
gloomy  room  which  you  reach  from  the  street  by 
descending  a  dark  and  steeply  sloping  passage.  About 
twenty  people  were  congregated  round  a  tea-table  at 
one  end.  They  all  seemed  to  be  intimate  friends. 
The  general  public  had  not  patronized  the  show. 

-'Dublin,'  said  O'Hara,  'is  a  miserable  place  for  an 
artist.  Poor  Tynan  won't  take  a  ten-pound  note  out 
of  the  whole  city.  You  see,  the  only  people  here  who 
have  money  are  the  officials  who  draw  good  salaries 
for  muddling  the  affairs  of  the  country.  Their  artistic 
needs  are  satisfied  with  coloured  photographs  of  Frank 
Dicksee's  pictures,  done  up  in  black-reeded  frames. 
This  sort  of  thing  doesn't  appeal  to  them.' 

It  didn't  appeal  much  at  first  to  Sir  Gerald.  The 
pictures  struck  him  as  only  half  finished.  Gradually, 
however,  he  began  to  feel  their  suggestion  of  reality. 
He  paused  to  look  at  a  series  of  sketches  labelled 
'Country  Types.'  There  was  'His  Reverence'  in  a 
greasy  coat,  fat  and  benevolent,  with  beady  eyes. 
Then  came  'The  Agent,'  with  a  suggestion  of  the 
militia  about  his  figure,  and  a  hunting-crop  in  his 
hand.  Next  him  was  'The  Farmer,'  a  slouching  figure 
with  outstretched  face  and  deprecating  eyes. 


THE  SEETHING  POT  2i 

'  I  sketched  those  in  county  Sligo  last  summer,'  said 
a  gentle  voice. 

Sir  Gerald  turned,  and  saw  a  lanky  boy  in  a  dirty 
collar  with  an  appealingly  tender  smile. 

'Are you  Mr.  Tynan  the  artist  ?'  he  asked,  surprised. 

'  I  really  am,'  said  the  boy ;  and  Sir  Gerald  forgot 
the  figure,  and  the  dirt  of  the  collar,  and  fell  to 
wondering  at  the  smile  and  the  beautiful  dark  blue 
eyes,  which  seemed  to  have  eternity  in  them. 

'  Come,'  said  the  artist,  '  I  will  show  you  something 
better  worth  looking  at  than  these.' 

He  led  the  way  to  a  picture  which  hung  by  itself 
near  the  door.  In  the  foreground  were  two  great- 
dogs,  Irish  wolf-hounds,  whose  jaws  dropped  red. 
Behind  there  was  the  nude  figure  of  a  man  viewed 
from  the  back.  The  light  fell  strongly  on  the  left 
foot  and  leg,  which  were  splashed  with  red.  Sir 
Gerald  realized  that  it  was  blood  which  dripped  from 
the  dogs'  jaws  and  coloured  the  man's  flesh.  There 
was  a  dim  suggestion  of  a  human  body,  mangled  and 
torn,  in  the  background. 

'  We  Catholics,'  said  the  artist,  'are  supposed  never 
to  read  our  Bibles,  but  that  is  a  Scriptural  subject. 
Do  you  remember  how  it  says  in  the  Psalms,  "  That 
thy  foot  may  be  dipped  in  the  blood  of  thine  enemies, 
and  the  tongue  of  thy  dogs  may  be  red  through  tha 
same  "  ?' 

Sir  Gerald  gazed  at  it. 

4 1  don't  understand  it,'  he  said  at  last.  '  I  like  the 
Irish  ones  best.' 


22  THE  SEETHING  POT 

'  Ah !'  said  the  artist,  '  perhaps  you  are  right.  But 
all  my  work  is  Irish,  this  as  well  as  the  rest — national 
in  sentiment,  I  mean.' 

'But  surely  your  conception  of  that  bloodthirsty 
verse  has  nothing  to  do  with  Irish  feelings.' 

'  I  imagine,'  said  the  artist,  '  that  we  Irish  have  felt 
that  way  sometimes  hi  the  past.  Perhaps  we  do  still, 
now  and  then.' 

Sir  Gerald  turned  from  the  pictures  and  looked  at 
him.  The  same  pathetically  tender  smile  lurked  on 
his  lips.  His  eyes  still  suggested  nothing  but  mystical 
religion.  O'Hara  bustled  up,  and  Tynan  effaced  him- 
self quietly  in  the  background. 

'  I  see  you  are  studying  Ireland,'  said  the  editor, 
'under  the  guidance  of  Mr.  Tynan.  But  come,  I 
want  to  get  you  a  cup  of  tea  and  to  introduce  you 
to  another  distinguished  Irishman,  Mr.  Browne — 
Dennis  Browne,  the  poet.  I  am  sure  you  know  his 
name.' 

'  Dennis  Browne  !'  said  Sir  Gerald.  '  I  know  his 
reputation,  of  course ;  but  I  thought  he  was  English 
by  birth  and  French  by  choice.  Is  he  an  Irishman  ?' 

'You  had  better  not  let  him  hear  you  doubt  it,' 
said  O'Hara.  '  After  trying  to  live  in  Paris  and 
London,  he  has  come  to  the  conclusion  that  Dublin 
is  the  only  city  not  wholly  given  over  to  the  bour- 
geoisie. The  divine  spark,  he  says,  still  smoulders  in 
the  Celt,  and  he  has  undertaken  to  fan  it  to  a  flame.' 

'  Dear  me !'  said  Sir  Gerald.  '  Will  the  Irish  people 
appreciate  his  kind  of  writing  ?  I  thought ' 


THE  SEETHING  POT  23 

'  Oh,'  said  O'Hara,  '  I  understand  what  you  mean  ; 
but  he  has  dropped  that  kind  of  thing,  more  or  less — 
at  least,  in  his  writings.  Besides,  you  know,  he  really 
does  belong  to  a  fine  old  Irish  family.  They  have 
been  rebels  for  generations.  They  say  his  grand- 
father was  the  first  man  to  welcome  Humbert  when 
he  landed  with  the  French  hi  Killala  in  '98.' 

The  famous  poet  stood  near  the  tea-table  surrounded 
by  a  group  of  admiring  ladies.  It  was  noticeable  that 
Dennis  Browne's  audience  was  generally  composed  of 
women.  Either  the  coarser  minds  of  men  were  unable 
to  appreciate  the  subtleties  of  his  conversation,  or  he 
did  not  care  to  put  forth  his  powers  for  their  benefit. 
Nor  did  all  women  care  to  listen  to  him.  Matrons, 
without  assigning  any  reason,  avoided  him  as  far  as 
possible,  and  kept  their  daughters  out  of  his  way.  On 
the  present  occasion  his  admirers  were  all  spinsters  of 
an  age  which  enabled  them  to  claim  their  independence. 
He  received  Sir  Gerald  very  graciously. 

'  I  heard  you  were  coming  over  to  Ireland,'  he  said. 
'  I  have  a  little  property  down  in  the  west,  near  yours. 
I  have  never  been  there  myself,  but  I  get  all  the  local 
gossip  from  my  agent.  You  are  quite  right  to  come 
and  live  here.  Ireland  is  the  only  country  for  a  man 
with  a  soul.  We  breathe  freely  in  a  Celtic  atmo- 
sphere. By  the  way — I  am  sure  you  have  not  noticed 
it — the  one  drawback  to  Ireland  is  that  the  people 
can't  cook.  I  don't  suppose  you  have  eaten  a  decent 
meal  since  you  landed.' 

Sir  Gerald  was  conscious   of  having  thoroughly 


24  THE  SEETHING  POT 

enjoyed  his  dinner  at  the  Shelbourne  the  night 
before. 

'  Really,'  he  said, '  I've  been  such  a  short  time  here, 
I  am  hardly  in  a  position  to  judge.' 

'  You'll  find  out  the  truth  of  what  I  tell  you,'  said 
Browne.  '  Why,  only  last  night  my  cook  sent  me  up 
what  she  said  was  an  omelet.  I  called  it  an  outrage. 
I  sent  for  her  and  explained  my  views  on  omelets  and 
on  her  powers  as  a  cook.  She  became  hysterical,  and 
complained  that  my  language  was  violent.  She  brought 
in  a  policeman  to  protect  her  "  from  talk  the  like  of 
which  no  decent  girl  could  be  expected  to  listen  to  !" 
I  told  the  policeman  that  the  omelet  was  one  which 
no  decent  man  could  be  expected  to  eat.  I  asked  him 
to  try  it  himself,  and  then  say  whether  my  language, 
or  indeed  any  language,  was  not  entirely  justifiable.' 

'  Well,'  said  Sir  Gerald,  whose  sympathies  were 
with  the  cook,  '  what  happened  next  ?' 

'  Nothing  more  happened,'  said  Browne.  '  I  rather 
think  the  cook  giggled.  Anyhow,  they  both  left,  she 
and  the  policeman,  taking  the  outrage  with  them.' 

The  lady  at  the  end  of  the  table,  who  had  been 
watching  her  opportunity,  offered  Sir  Gerald  tea  and 
cake.  Dennis  Browne  resumed  what  was  apparently 
a  lecture  to  his  female  audience. 

'  It  is,'  explained  the  lady,  '  of  his  new  play  that  he 
is  speaking.' 

Apparently  she  wished  to  listen,  so  Sir  Gerald 
forbore  any  attempt  at  conversation  with  her. 

'  The  greatest  difficulty,'  the  poet  was  saying,  '  with 


THE  SEETHING  POT  25 

which  we  have  to  contend  in  representing  the  Celtic 
heroic  legends  on  the  modern  stage  is  the  matter  of 
costume.  The  ladies  of  the  Red  Branch  epoch  cer- 
tainly never  wore  certain  garments  now  considered 
quite  indispensable.  The  modern  actress  insists  upon 
wearing  them.  I  fear  an  audience  would  be  shocked 
if  they  discovered  she  appeared  without  them.  And 
yet  true  art  is  necessarily  realistic  in  these  matters, 
and  refuses  to  be  fettered  by  conventional  ideas  of 
decency.' 

Sir  Gerald  looked  round  the  audience.  The  ladies 
exhibited  signs  of  a  certain  pleasurable  embarrass- 
ment, but  were  evidently  anxious  to  hear  the  solution 
of  the  difficulty.  He  felt  himself  unwilling  to  share 
with  them  any  further  disclosures  about  the  lingerie 
of  either  ancient  heroines  or  modern  actresses,  and 
turned  with  a  commonplace  remark  to  the  lady 
who  had  given  him  tea.  She  was  in  no  mood  for 
exchanging  platitudes  with  a  stranger  when  she  might 
be  drinking  in  theories  of  art  from  the  lips  of  a  poet. 
So  Sir  Gerald  found  himself  hurriedly  introduced  to 
a  stout  man  who  stood  outside  the  tea-table  group. 
O'Hara  explained  to  him  who  his  new  acquaintance 
was. 

'  Mr.  Donovan,'  he  said,  '  is  one  of  our  greatest 
Celtic  scholars.  He  is  deeply  interested  in  the  revival 
of  the  Irish  language.' 

'Perhaps,'  said  Sir  Gerald,  with  an  effort  to  be 
civil,  '  you  have  been  helping  Mr.  Browne  with  his 
new  play.' 


26  THE  SEETHING  POT 

'  Certainly  not/  said  Donovan.  '  I  shall  never 
willingly  assist  in  the  defilement  of  our  heroic 
literature  by  the  introduction  into  its  stories  of  the 
spirit  of  French  decadent  poets  of  the  school  of  Paul 
Verlaine.' 

Sir  Gerald  felt  he  had  blundered,  and  was  casting 
about  for  a  fresh  subject,  when  Donovan  began  again  : 

'  I  said  I  should  never  willingly  help  Mr.  Browne  in 
his  work,'  he  said,  with  a  harsh  laugh.  '  It  has  been 
my  misfortune  to  very  materially  assist  him  against 
my  will.  His  new  play  is  plagiarized — deliberately 
and  shamelessly  plagiarized  without  acknowledgment 
— from  one  which  I  wrote  myself  in  Irish,  and 
intended  to  have  acted  by  a  company  of  Irish-speak- 
ing peasants,  trained  specially  for  the  purpose.' 

'You  interest  me  immensely,'  said  Sir  Gerald. 
'  Can  you  get  an  audience  willing  to  listen  to  a  play  in 
Irish?' 

'  We  can— even  here  in  Dublin.  But  my  hope  is 
that  in  the  future  Irish  literature  and  Irish  plays 
will  spread  to  every  village  where  Irish  is  the  spoken 
language.  Our  movement  makes  its  appeal  to  the 
peasantry.  The  educated  classes  are  beyond  hope. 
We  are  building  up  a  new  Ireland  from  the  cabins  of 
Connaught  and  the  children  of  the  National  Schools.' 

Sir  Gerald  caught  a  note  of  genuine  enthusiasm  in 
the  voice  of  the  man,  now  that  he  had  passed  away 
from  his  grievance  against  Dennis  Browne. 

*  But  tell  me,'  he  said — '  I  am  not  asking  in  any 
critical  spirit — what  is  the  use  of  reviving  a  language 


THE  SEETHING  POT  27 

which,  in  the  natural  course  of  events,  would  be  dead 
in  the  course  of  the  next  ten  years  ?' 

O'Hara  laughed,  and  it  was  he  who  answered 
'  Mr.  Donovan  hopes  to  make  it  more  and  more  diffi- 
cult for  Englishmen  to  live  in  our  country.  Last 
summer  I  was  down  in  a  little  town  in  the  west  where 
the  names  of  the  streets  are  posted  up  in  Irish.  It 
was  a  positive  treat  to  see  a  touring  cyclist — obviously 
a  Sassenach — gaping  up  at  them." 

'  Don't  take  Mr.  O'Hara  too  seriously,'  said  Donovan. 
'After  all,  hospitality  is  one  of  our  virtues.  What 
we  really  feel  is  that  we  can't  allow  our  nationality  to 
be  merged  in  that  of  England.  We  mean  to  maintain 
our  individuality  amongst  nations.  But  how  can  a 
nation  exist  without  its  language  ?  If  we  adopt  the 
speech  of  our  conquerors,  we  shall  adopt  along  with  it 
their  thought  and  their  ideals." 

'  But,'  said  Sir  Gerald,  '  isn't  it  almost  too  late  now 
to  revive  the  language  ?' 

'  Almost,  yes,  but  not  quite.  After  the  passing  of 
another  generation  it  would  have  been  hopeless.  Now 
we  have  just  a  chance,  and  everything  ought  to  be 
sacrificed  to  taking  advantage  of  it.  I'm  no  politician, 
and,  as  far  as  religion  goes,  I  am  only  a  very  luke- 
warm Protestant.  If  I  could,  I  would  smother  every 
political  and  religious  controversy  until  the  people 
who  take  part  in  them  are  able  to  say  what  they  want 
to  say  in  their  own  proper  tongue.' 

Sir  Gerald  walked  back  to  his  hotel  puzzled  and 
dissatisfied.  His  glimpse  of  the  intellect  of  Ireland — 


28  THE  SEETHING  POT 

if,  indeed,  it  was  the  intellect  of  Ireland  to  which  he 
had  been  introduced — was  not  inspiring.  Dennis 
Browne  he  disliked.  .The  man  struck  him  as  a 
'  poseur ' ;  his  writings  he  knew  to  be  morbidly  dis- 
gusting, and  only  the  more  dangerous  because  they 
were  touched  with  genius.  Donovan  seemed  to  be  an 
enthusiast  spending  himself  in  a  cause  foredoomed  to 
failure. 

His  plaoe  at  dinner  that  night  was  reserved  for  him 
next  a  party  consisting  of  an  elderly  gentleman,  a 
girl — apparently  his  daughter — and  a  younger  man, 
whom  they  greeted  by  his  Christian  name  when  he 
joined  them  at  table.  The  girl  was  beautifully 
dressed ;  her  rings  and  her  necklace  sparkled  as  she 
moved.  She  held  herself  confidently,  and  threw  her 
laughter  back  in  return  for  what  the  man  said  to  her, 
as  if  she  knew  that  admiration  was  her  simple  right. 
The  attitudes  and  manners  of  the  whole  three  told  of  a 
conviction  that  life  was  good,  and  that  the  best  part 
of  what  was  pleasant  in  it  belonged,  and  ought  to 
belong,  to  them.  They  were  Irish  people,  for  they 
spoke  of  hunting  during  the  winter  in  places  which 
bore  Irish  names,  and  of  race-meetings  at  famous 
Irish  courses.  The  young  man  told  a  story  of  an 
effort  made  by  some  '  blackguards  belonging  to  the 
League '  to  stop  the  hunting  near  his  place.  The 
elder  man  replied  with  a  bitter  scoff  at  a  political 
agitator,  one  Michael  McCarty,  whom  he  had  helped 
to  send  to  a  well-deserved  period  of  hard  labour  in 
gaol.  The  girl  laughed. 


THE  SEETHING  POT  29 

1  Do  you  remember,'  she  said,  '  how  old  Lady 
Louisa  used  to  speak  of  them  as  the  "canaille"? 
It's  just  what  they  are.' 

Sir  Gerald  felt  that  these  people  belonged  to  a 
different  world  from  that  of  the  men  and  women 
whom  he  had  met  in  the  afternoon.  They  repre- 
sented the  class  that  O'Hara  had  said  ought  to  be 
leading  the  people.  What  folly  it  seemed  to  think 
such  a  thing  possible ! 

He  remembered,  with  a  sensation  of  pleasure  which 
surprised  him,  that  he,  too,  belonged  to  this  class — 
belonged  to  it  by  right  of  birth  and  wealth  and  station. 
In  the  future  he  might  find  himself  beside  this  brilliant 
girl,  might  watch  her  smile  when  he  spoke  to  her. 
It  had  been  among  these  people,  or  those  like  them, 
that  his  father  had  moved.  He  had,  perhaps,  known 
the  old  man  in  his  boyhood — had,  it  might  be,  laughed 
with  old  Lady  Louisa  when  she  flashed  like  the  girl 
who  quoted  her.  And  his  father  had  given  it  all  up 
and  gone  out  to  the  others,  the  people,  the  '  canaille ' 
— no  doubt  the  word  had  been  in  vogue  in  those  days. 
What  had  Lady  Louisa  thought  or  said  of  him  ? 
Certainly  his  father  had  attempted  to  lead  the  people ; 
ineffectually,  perhaps,  but  even  his  attempt  made  the 
thing  seem  possible.  Perhaps,  after  all,  O'Hara  was 
not  so  foolish  as  he  seemed.  Voices  which  cry  in  the 
wilderness  are  heard  sometimes  by  those  whose  hearts 
drive  them  out  to  seek  for  more  than  a  man  clothed 
in  soft  raiment. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  journey  from  Dublin  to  the  western  sea- coast  is 
not  one  to  move  the  lover  of  picturesque  scenery  to 
enthusiasm.  The  carefully-tilled  farms  of  Kildare  and 
the  broad  grazing-lands  of  Westmeath  suggest  comfort 
and  moderate  prosperity.  Mullingar,  seen  from  the 
train,  seems  a  fourth-rate  Irish  town,  squalid,  of 
course,  but  not  squalid  enough  to  be  deemed  char- 
acteristic of  the  country.  Even  the  Shannon  at 
Athlone  fails  to  be  impressive.  The  lazy  stream, 
broadening  from  the  railway-bridge  northwards  to 
Lough  Ree,  does  not  help  the  sentimental  student  of 
history  to  realize  the  day  when  -Ginkel's  soldiers 
caught  the  Irish  officers  feasting,  and  forced  their  way 
across  it.  The  pettily  pretentious  meeting-house  of 
some  Dissenting  sect  catches  and  holds  the  eye  of  him 
who  tries  to  conjure  up  a  vision  of  Sarsfield's  troopers 
riding  up  the  banks.  It  is  indeed  something  to  feel, 
as  the  train  slows  down  into  Athlone,  that  a  certain 
boundary  is  passed,  and  that  Connaught  is  reached. 
This  is  the  land  which  Cromwell  thought  so  ill  of  that 
it  seemed  to  him  indifferent  whether  the  vanquished 

80 


THE  SEETHING  POT  31 

Celt  went  to  hell  or  Connaught.     This  is  the  land 
whose  spirit  Davis  rated  so  highly  that  he  wrote : 

4  The  West's  asleep,  the  West's  asleep — 
Alas  !  and  well  may  Erin  weep, 
When  Connaught  lies  in  slumber  deep.* 

Henceforward  the  country  grows,  if  not  beautiful, 
at  least  deeply  interesting.  The  train  crawls  more 
and  more  slowly  through  Roscommon  and  across 
Mayo.  The  traveller  can  study  in  detail  tracts 
of  bog,  patched  with  bright  green  fields  or  black 
ploughed  land.  Farmhouses  have  disappeared,  and 
their  place  is  taken  by  thatched  cabins,  with  lean 
small  cattle  and  barelegged  children  round  their  doors. 
The  stoppages  become  more  frequent.  From  every 
station  little  huddled  towns  are  to  be  seen,  each  a 
shade  shabbier  than  its  sister  next  on  the  east.  The 
spires  and  towers  and  walls  of  great  garish  churches 
overtop  and  dwarf  the  houses.  Featureless  ranges  of 
convent  buildings  have  seized  the  vantage-ground  of 
neighbouring  hills.  The  church  has  dominated  these 
towns,  but  not,  as  sometimes  in  England,  where  a 
minster  looks  down  like  a  venerable  mother  upon 
the  streets  beneath.  Here  the  ecclesiastical  buildings 
are  obtrusive,  self-assertive,  new.  Bedraggled  houses 
cluster  round  them,  less,  it  seems,  because  they  love 
them  than  from  a  desire  to  share  a  spurious  smartness. 
On  every  platform  there  congregate  similar  groups  of 
cattle-jobbers  and  small  farmers  clad  in  meanly-made 
shop-clothes.  Very  rarely  among  them  there  is  some 
older  man  who  still  wears  the  rough  gray  frieze.  The 


32  THE  SEETHING  POT 

women  as  they  pass  reek  of  sour  turf  smoke.  Men 
and  women  alike  have  still  the  cowed  look  on  their 
faces  which  is  their  inheritance  from  the  generations 
that  England  really  ruled.  The  inevitable  police- 
man who  stands  by  to  see  the  train  arrive  and  leave 
is  a  kind  of  symbol  that  Ireland  is  still  held  by  a 
garrison. 

To  Sir  Gerald  the  whole  journey  was  intensely 
interesting.  He  formulated  no  impressions  of  what 
he  saw,  but  he  felt  that  in  the  west  far  more  than  in 
Dublin  he  actually  touched  Ireland.  The  tones  of  the 
^ople's  voices,  the  shapes  of  the  fields,  and  cabins, 
tne  very  air  he  breathed,  seemed  possible  nowhere  but 
in  Ireland.  When  the  train  at  last  struggled  wearily 
into  Clogher  Station,  he  strained  his  head  out  of  the 
carriage  window,  like  a  schoolboy  coming  home,  for  a 
first  glimpse  of  the  place  he  already  felt  he  loved. 

To  his  surprise,  he  saw  that  the  platform  was 
crowded.  As  the  train  drew  up  a  band  struck  up 
'  God  save  Ireland,'  and  the  people  burst  into  a  cheer. 
Sir  Gerald  observed  a  little  group  of  black-coated 
men  who  stood  together  and  peered  eagerly  into  the 
windows  of  the  passing  carriages.  It  flashed  across 
his  mind  that  the  towns-people  had  come  up  to  wel- 
come him  home.  Evidently  the  men  who  stood  in 
front  were  members  of  some  local  body,  of  the  Urban 
Council  or  the  Poor  Law  Guardians.  He  was  immensely 
touched  and  gratified.  He  had  already  began  to  con- 
sider rapidly  how  he  might  best  express  his  feelings, 
when  he  heard  himself  addressed  : 


THE  SEETHING  POT  3g 

*  Sir  Gerald  Geoghegan,  I  presume.' 

The  speaker  was  a  tall,  elderly  man,  unmistakably 
a  gentleman,  dressed  in  a  well-fitting  tweed  suit,  witfe 
tight  brown  gaiters  round  his  legs. 

'Yes,'  said  Sir  Gerald,  who  was  watching  the  crow£ 
gather  round  a  carriage  near  the  end  of  a  train. 

'  So  I  guessed.  I  am  Mr.  Godfrey,  your  agent. 
Have  you  many  traps  ?  I  have  the  carriage  outside. 
Shall  we  go  over  to  it  at  once,  and  send  for  the  luggage 
afterwards  ?' 

Mr.  Godfrey  seemed  hurried  and  a  little  anxious. 

'But,'  said  Sir  Gerald,  '  ought  I  not  to  say  some- 
thing to  these  people  ?  I  hardly  like  to  run  away  lika 
this  when  they  have  come  up  to  meet  me.' 

Mr.  Godfrey  stared  at  him.  Then  slowly  the  ghost 
of  a  smile  flickered  across  his  lips. 

'  Good  Lord  !'  he  said  slowly. 

Sir  Gerald  did  not  hear  him.  He  was  watching 
the  crowd.  A  young  man  had  mounted  on  a  porter's 
barrow,  and  was  making  a  speech.  Sir  Gerald  could 
not  hear  what  he  said,  but  he  saw  the  crowd  gathering 
round  him.  The  band  stopped  playing  and  joined  the 
people  round  the  speaker. 

Mr.  Godfrey  took  him  by  the  arm. 

'  It's  not  you  they've  come  to  meet,  but  Michael 
McCarty,  who's  just  got  out  of  prison.  Come  on.' 

'  Wait  a  moment,'  said  Sir  Gerald.  He  saw  the 
speaker  stretch  out  his  arm  and  point  to  where  he 
and  Mr.  Godfrey  were  standing.  The  crowd  turned 
their  faces  towards  him.  Suddenly  a  shrill-voiced 

3 


84  THE  SEETHING  POT 

woman  shrieked  out  something  he  could  not  catch, 
and  shook  her  fist  at  him.  The  crowd  groaned 
loudly.  Then  he  heard  curses  shouted  by  the  men. 
Mr.  Godfrey  glanced  quickly  at  a  smart  young  police- 
officer  who  stood  with  about  twenty  of  his  men 
watching  the  crowd. 

'  Come  along,'  he  said.  '  Let's  get  out  of  this. 
There'll  only  be  trouble  if  we  stay.  I'll  explain  any- 
thing you  want  to  know  when  we  get  into  the  carriage.' 

They  crossed  the  line  and  passed  through  the  gate 
of  the  station.  The  road  was  blocked  by  two  great 
brakes  and  a  dozen  or  more  cars.  The  carriage  stood 
at  some  distance,  unable  to  approach  the  station. 

Mr.  Godfrey  singled  out  the  driver  of  one  of  the 
brakes. 

'  Pull  your  horses  out  of  that,'  he  said.  >  What 
the  mischief  do  you  mean  by  blocking  up  the  whole 
road !  Do  you  suppose  we're  going  to  wade  through 
the  mud  to  please  you  ?' 

The  man  looked  for  a  moment  as  though  he 
resented  the  order.  Then  he  pulled  at  his  reins  and 
shouted  to  a  boy  who  stood  near  him : 

'  Catch  the  mare  by  the  head,  can't  you,  Patsey  ? 
Don't  you  see  Mr.  Godfrey  and  the  gentleman  stand- 
ing there?'  And  then  to  Mr.  Godfrey,  touching  his 
hat  as  he  spoke :  '  Your  honour  won't  think  I  was 
meanin'  to  interfere  with  the  carriage  ?' 

As  soon  as  they  had  got  clear  of  the  station  and 
were  driving  down  the  street,  Mr.  Godfrey's  anxiety 
disappeared.  He  leant  back  and  chuckled  quietly. 


THE  SEETHING  POT  35 

'  You'll  excuse  my  laughing,'  he  said.  '  Keally 
the  whole  thing  was  extremely  funny.  Fancy  your 
thinking ' 

Sir  Gerald,  who  failed  to  see  any  joke  in  the  scene 
at  the  railway-station,  interrupted  him. 

'  Who  is  Michael  McCarty  ?'  he  asked,  '  and  why 
should  they  welcome  him  ?' 

'  Oh,'  said  Mr.  Godfrey,  '  of  course  you  can't  under- 
stand yet.  Michael  McCarty  is  M.P.  for  this  division 
of  the  county,  one  of  John  O'Neill's  lambs,  and  a  fine 
specimen  of  the  breed.  He  has  spent  the  last  two 
months  in  Maryborough  Gaol.  His  sentence  was 
three  months  with  hard  labour.  I  can't  imagine  why 
he  was  let  out  too  soon.' 

'  What  was  he  sentenced  for  ?' 

'  Inciting  to  outrage — at  least,  that's  what  they 
called  it.  It  happened  just  after  the  county  was 
proclaimed.' 

'  But  were  there  any  outrages  ?'  asked  Sir  Gerald. 
'  I  didn't  hear  of  any.' 

'  No,  I  can't  say  there  were,'  said  Mr.  Godfrey ; 
*  but  it  wasn't  McCarty's  fault  if  there  weren't.  He 
made  violent  speeches.  You  heard  him  yourself 
to-day.  That's  the  sort  of  thing  they  shut  him 
up  for.  I  expect  they'll  be  sorry  now  they  let  him 
out.' 

'  I  couldn't  hear  what  he  was  saying.  What 
was  it  ?' 

'  I  couldn't,  either,  but  I  can  make  a  pretty  good 
guess  that  he  was  denouncing  you  and  me — princi- 

3—2 


86  THE  SEETHING  POT 

pally  me,  of  course.     I  was  probably  represented  as 
your  evil  angel.' 

Sir  Gerald  pondered  this  information  for  awhile, 
and  then  asked : 

'  Who  was  the  woman  who  shouted  at  us  ?' 

'  That  was  the  widow  Henaghan.  Her's  is  really  a 
funny  story.  I  flatter  myself  I  scored  rather  neatly 
off  John  O'Neill  over  her.  Last  Christmas  I  had  to 
evict  her  from  a  wretched  little  mountainy  farm  away 
beyond  the  bog.  She  owed  six  years'  rent,  and  there 
wasn't  the  remotest  prospect  of  her  ever  being  able  to 
pay  anything.  John  O'Neill  took  the  matter  up,  and 
wrote  letters  to  some  of  the  English  radical  papers.  I 
remember  he  called  me  "  a  sinister  Santa  Glaus."  He 
drew  a  harrowing  picture  of ^  the  widow  sitting  in  a 
snowdrift  trying  to  suckle  her  child  from  a  breast 
shrunk  with  starvation.  It  was  exceedingly  pretty 
and  effective,  only  there  hadn't  been  any  snow,  and 
Mrs.  Henaghan's  husband  is  dead  these  eight  years. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  her  youngest  child  is  a  well-grown 
\  boy  of  ten  or  thereabouts.  I  replied  to  Mr.  O'Neill, 
:  and  asked  him  what  he  meant  by  taking  away  a 

respectable  woman's  character  in  such  a  way.' 
!       '  Well  ?'  said  Sir  Gerald. 

'That's  all,'  said  Mr.  Godfrey.  'John  O'Neill 
stopped  writing  letters  on  that  subject.' 

'  But  the  woman  ?'  asked  Sir  Gerald. 

'  Oh,  the  woman !  I  would  have  been  glad  enough 
to  help  her  a  bit,  but  she  wouldn't  take  money  from 
me.  She  insisted  on  making  rows,  and  has  spent 


THE  SEETHING  POT  37 

most  of  her  time  in  prison  since  for  breaches  of  the 
peace.' 

The  town  of  Clogher  consists  mainly  of  one  long 
street,  which  runs  straight  to  the  gates  of  Sir  Gerald's 
demesne.  At  one  end  stands  the  Koman  Catholic 
church,  obtrusively  raw  and  remarkable,  even  among 
Irish  Eoman  Catholic  churches,  for  the  peculiar 
hideousness  of  its  architecture.  It  is  much  to  be 
desired  that  the  authorities  of  Maynooth  College 
would  appoint  a  Professor  of  Ecclesiastical  Art  We 
might  then  hope  to  hear  some  Archbishop  launch  an 
excommunication  against  the  architects  who  design 
these  buildings.  It  cannot  but  be  subversive  of  the 
faith  and  morals  of  a  people  to  be  obliged  every  day 
to  look  at  edifices  of  which  even  an  English  church- 
warden, bent  on  restoration,  would  be  ashamed.  At 
the  other  end  of  the  street,  on  a  patch  of  ground  cut 
out  of  the  demesne,  stands  the  fane  of  the  Church  of 
Ireland.  It  has  turned  its  back  deliberately,  even 
ostentatiously,  on  the  town.  Within  the  locked  gates 
that  lead  to  it,  the  gravel  walk  is  smoothly  raked,  and 
the  grass  on  the  graves  trim  and  tidy.  The  edifice 
itself  is  decent,  according  to  the  conception  of  the  old 
Ecclesiastical  Commissioners.  Compared  to  its  newer 
and  wealthier  rival,  it  has  the  prim  air  of  a  decayed 
gentlewoman  in  the  presence  of  some  self-assertive 
noureau  riche.  Two  banks,  a  court-house,  and  a  work- 
house make  up  the  rest  of  Clogher's  public  buildings. 

The  demesne  gates  stood  wide  open  for  the  home- 
coming of  the  new  master.  A  respectful  police 


38  THE  SEETHING  POT 

pensioner  saluted  the  carriage  as  it  passed,  while  his 
wife  and  daughter  peered  from  the  gate-lodge  windows 
to  catch  a  glimpse  of  Sir  Gerald. 

A  long  avenue,  shaded  with  lime-trees,  led  to  the 
house.  Cattle  grazed  at  will  on  the  rough  grass  on 
either  side  of  it.  The  house  itself  stood  gray  and 
stiff  above  a  broad  artificial  lake.  Long  rows  of 
windows  promised  ample  room  within.  Two  heraldic 
eagles  which  perched  against  the  skyline  at  the 
corners  of  the  long  front  witnessed  to  a  certain 
appreciation  of  pomp  in  some  deceased  Geoghegan. 

'  The  place  isn't  very  tidy,'  said  Mr.  Godfrey.  '  Of 
course,  your  poor  cousin  didn't  mind.  He  rambled 
about  all  day  among  the  bullocks,  which  were  the 
only  things  he  seemed  to  care  for.  I  should  think 
you'll  want  to  make  some  sort  of  lawn,  and  not  have 
them  grazing  right  up  to  your  steps.' 

'  Yes,'  said  Sir  Gerald,  '  we  must  try  to  improve 
things  a  bit.  I  suppose  there  are  some  servants  in 
the  house.' 

'  Old  Jameson  and  his  wife  are  there.  He  was 
your  uncle's  butler,  and  she  was  the  cook.  I  dare 
say  they'll  make  you  pretty  comfortable.  I  told 
Mrs.  Jameson  some  time  ago  to  get  a  handy-looking 
country  girl  and  break  her  into  housemaid  work.  Of 
course,  your  cousin's  personal  servant — his  keeper,  you 
know,  for  that's  what  it  came  to — left  after  he  died.' 

'  Will  you  come  in  and  lunch  with  me  ?'  asked  Sir 
Gerald.  '  I  suppose  they'll  have  something  for  us  to 
eat.' 


THE  SEETHING  POT  39 

'I  think  not,  thanks.  I  ought  to  look  in  at  the 
office  before  I  go  home.  Besides,  it  would  be  a  shame 
to  deprive  old  Jameson  of  the  pleasure  of  showing  you 
over  the  house.  He's  always  boasting  that  he  remem- 
bers your  father.' 

'  Really,'  said  Sir  Gerald  eagerly.  '  I  suppose 
hardly  anyone  else  does  now  ?' 

'  I  think  not,'  said  Mr.  Godfrey.  And  then  quickly, 
like  a  man  who  avoids  an  unpleasant  subject :  '  When 
shall  I  see  you  in  the  office  ?  I  don't  want  to  bore 
you  with  business  when  you  will  naturally  wish  to 
explore  your  territory  and  get  to  feel  at  home,  but 
there  are  a  lot  of  things  that  want  to  be  looked  into. 
Your  poor  cousin's  infirmity  left  a  great  deal  of 
responsibility  on  me,  more  than  I  care  for.' 

Mr.  Godfrey  walked  back  to  the  town.  At  the 
demesne  gate  he  met  Canon  Johnston,  the  Rector. 
It  would  scarcely  be  true  to  say  that  the  Canon  was 
lurking  round  the  gate  in  the  hope  of  meeting  Mr. 
Godfrey,  but  it  was  certainly  a  fortunate  accident  that 
he  had  stopped  to  consult  the  police  pensioner  about 
the  condition  of  his  bees.  When  he  met  Mr.  Godfrey, 
he  was  undisguisedly  anxious  to  hear  what  kind  of 
man  Sir  Gerald  was. 

1  Well,  Godfrey  ?'  he  said  after  shaking  hands. 

Mr.  Godfrey,  who  had  a  sense  of  humour,  inquired 
for  Mrs.  Johnston,  and  then  for  each  of  her  six 
children.  The  Canon  pushed  his  way  through  his 
family,  and  asked  point-blank  : 

'  Has  he  arrived  ?    What  do  you  think  of  him  ?' 


*t>  THE  SEETHING  POT 

'  Who  ?'  asked  Mr.  Godfrey,  with  an  innocent  smile. 
Then,  remembering  that  a  considerable  portion  of 
the  Rector's  income  and  his  chances  of  a  quiet  and 
comfortable  life  depended  on  the  character  of  the  new 
owner  of  the  property,  he  took  pity,  and  said :  '  He 
geems  all  right  so  far.' 

'  He's  not ' — the  Canon  tapped  his  forehead — '  like 
that  last  man,  is  he  ?' 

'  Not  the  least,  I  should  say,'  said  Mr.  Godfrey. 
Then  he  recollected  Sir  Gerald's  sudden  eagerness  at 
the  mention  of  his  father,  and  added  :  '  Any  way,  I 
bope  not.  You  never  can  be  quite  sure.  They're  a 
queer  family,  you  know.  The  last  man  was  simply 
an  imbecile.  His  father  was  the  sort  of  miser  one 
might  well  call  a  monomaniac,  and  this  man's  father 
Was  a  rebel.' 

'  I  hope  to  goodness  he's  not  going  to  take  after 
him,'  said  the  Canon,  so  sincerely  as  to  leave  no  doubt 
4hat  in  his  opinion  both  the  imbecile  and  the  miser 
Were  to  be  preferred  to  the  Young  Ireland  leader. 

'  I  think  he  got  a  dose  to  start  with,'  said  Mr.  God- 
frey. '  That  ought  to  cure  him  of  any  leanings  that 
Way.  McCarty  came  down  in  the  same  train,  and 
denounced  him  to  his  face  before  a  crowd  on  the 
platform.' 

'Ah,'  said  the  Canon,  'that  will  let  him  see  what 
those  fellows  are  like  !' 

'  Yes,'  said  Mr.  Godfrey ;  '  and,  oh,  by  the  way,  I 

nearly  forgot  to  tell  you '  He  launched  into  the 

story  of  Sir  Gerald's  mistake.  The  Canon  proved  an 
amused  and  sympathetic  listener. 


CHAPTER  IV 

MICHAEL  MCCARTY  was  also  escorted  from  the  railway- 
station  to  the  town.  The  band  went  in  front,  filling 
the  first  brake.  They  gave  a  jolty  version  of  '  The 
Bonny  Banks  of  Lough  Lomond '  as  the  horses 
trotted  down  the  hill.  In  the  other  brake  sat  the 
emancipated  member  of  Parliament,  supported  by  the 
chairmen  of  the  Poor  Law  Guardians  and  the  Urban 
District  Council,  with  as  many  members  of  their 
boards  as  could  succeed  in  squeezing  themselves  in. 
The  rest  of  the  crowd  followed  in  an  irregular  pro- 
cession, some  on  cars  and  others  on  foot.  Barefooted 
enthusiasts  ran  beside  the  band  and  excited  its 
members  to  fresh  exertions. 

The  whole  cavalcade  halted  outside  the  Presbytery. 
Father  Tom  Fahy  and  his  curates  stood  bareheaded 
on  the  pavement  to  offer  their  welcome.  Father  Fahy 
had  been  but  recently  appointed  administrator  of  the 
parish.  He  came  from  a  remote  parish,  and  brought 
with  him  a  reputation  as  a  politician.  He  was  known 
to  the  members  of  the  League  as  '  Father  Tom,  the 
patriot,  God  bless  him  !'  Mr.  Godfrey  spoke  of  him 
as  a  '  regular  firebrand,  the  worst  type  of  priest.'  He 

41 


42  THE  SEETHING  POT 

shook  McCarty  warmly  by  the  hand,  and  led  him 
into  the  Presbytery.  A  select  number  of  the  deputa- 
tion of  welcome  followed  with  the  curates.  The  whole 
party  assembled  in  the  dining-room  and  ranged  them- 
selves uncomfortably  against  the  walls.  The  centre 
of  the  room  was  occupied  by  a  table  of  hospitable  size, 
spread  with  a  coarse  cloth.  Knives,  forks,  and  spoons 
of  various  patterns  were  arranged  with  a  certain 
freedom  from  conventionality.  A  shining  red  mahog- 
any sideboard  was  covered  with  a  great  array  of 
drinkables.  In  the  front  stood  six  bottles,  whose 
gold-tinselled  corks  proclaimed  them  champagne. 
Behind  and  beside  them  were  ample  decanters  of 
port  and  sherry.  In  the  background,  multiplied  into 
an  apparently  endless  array  by  the  sideboard's  mirror, 
stood  John  Jameson's  whisky  in  the  bottles  of  its 
maker,  unashamed.  The  walls  of  the  room  were 
hung  with  garish  prints,  apparently  designed  to  foster 
the  piety  of  those  who  shared  the  priest's  hospitality. 
Over  the  chimney-piece  was  an  immense  frame  con- 
taining small  portraits  of  every  Pope  from  the  original 
Linus  down  to  Pius  IX. 

'Mary,'  shouted  Father  Fahy  cheerfully,  'make 
haste,  like  a  good  girl,  and  bring  in  the  dinner.  Mr. 
McCarty  is  starving.' 

'  Did  they  give  you  a  good  breakfast  before  you  left 
this  morning?'  asked  Mr.  Walsh,  the  chairman  of 
the  District  Council. 

The  delicate  suggestiveness  of  his  wit  drew  forth  a 
hearty  laugh,  and  raised  a  crowd  of  imitators. 


THE  SEETHING  POT  43 

'  Was  it  bread  and  water  they  fed  you  on  ?'  asked 
one. 

'  They  say  the  prison  soup  has  mortal  little  flavour,' 
added  a  Poor  Law  Guardian. 

'  Faith,  and  it's  yourself  ought  to  be  a  judge  of  that 
same!'  said  a  curate.  'Didn't  you  taste  the  work- 
house dinner  after  they  said  you  were  starving  the 
paupers  ?' 

Mary,  hot-faced  but  smiling,  pushed  her  way  round 
the  table  while  the  jest  wore  itself  threadbare.  She 
deposited  great  joints  of  mutton  at  the  head  and  foot. 
Two  hams  and  large  dishes  of  potatoes  were  arranged 
along  the  sides.  The  food  steamed  invitingly.  Father 
Fahy  whetted  his  knife. 

'  Will  you  eat  your  mutton  roast  or  boiled,  Mr. 
McCarty?  I  recommend  the  boiled  to  you.  Mary 
knows  how  to  do  it  to  a  turn,  and  I  told  McKeown  to 
give  us  the  best  meat  he  had  for  to-day.' 

'Faith,  and  it's  yourself  knows  how  to  choose  a 
joint,  Father  Fahy.  I'll  engage  McKeown  didn't 
send  the  equal  to  that  down  to  Sir  Gerald  to-day.' 

'  It  would  be  queer  if  he  did.  Who'd  have  a  right 
to  the  best  if  it  wasn't  the  priest  ?' 

'  And  the  people's  representative,'  said  Father 
Fahy,  '  the  martyr  to  the  cause.  Gentlemen,  what 
will  you  drink  ?' 

The  connection  of  thought  seemed  obvious  to  every- 
one. In  Ireland  all  '  causes '  create  thirst.  Even 
temperance  reformers  recognise  that  enthusiasm  re- 
quires some  liquid  refreshment,  and  suggest  tea. 


44  THE  SEETHING  POT 

The  younger  of  the  two  curates  fetched  over  the 
decanters  and  bottles. 

'  I  shall  support  the  native  article,'  said  McCarty, 
laying  hands  on  a  bottle  of  whisky. 

'  'Deed,  and  you  will  not,'  said  Father  Fahy — '  not 
to-day,  anyhow.  Nothing  less  than  the  fizz  will  serve 
for  you  and  me  on  this  occasion.' 

He  wrestled  with  the  wire  of  the  cork,  and  at  last 
produced  a  satisfactory  explosion.  A  large  green 
glass,  of  the  kind  out  of  which  people  once  drank 
hock,  was  filled  for  McCarty.  Father  Fahy  quaffed 
his  own  share  without  misgiving.  He  was  no  judge 
of  wine,  and  had  bought  this  particular  brand  on  the 
strength  of  an  advertisement  which  described  it  aa 
'  a  peculiar  vintage.'  Its  character  had  been  under- 
stated. It  was  more  than  '  peculiar.'  Quite  possibly 
it  was  unique.  The  majority  of  the  guests  stuck  to 
the  whisky. 

'  After  all,'  said  Mr.  Walsh,  '  it's  hard  to  beat  ould 
Ireland  in  the  matter  of  drinks.' 

'  I  hear,'  said  Mr.  James  Duffy,  locally  known  as 
Sheid  Amoch,  or  Blow-out,  on  account  of  his  gift  for 
expansive  oratory,  '  that  Canon  Johnston  has  put  the 
R.M.  up  to  opposing  ould  Biddy  Halloran's  application 
for  a  license  at  the  next  sessions.' 

'  More  shame  for  him  !'  said  Walsh.  '  What  does 
he  want  to  be  spoiling  an  honest  woman's  chance  of 
earning  a  living  for,  and  her  a  widow  ?' 

'  That's  true,  too,'  said  a  local  publican;  'but  there's 
a  powerful  lot  of  public-houses  in  the  town  already.' 


THE  SEETHING  POT  45 

'  "Well,  and  isn't  a  public-house  better  than  a 
shebeen  ?'  said  Sheid  Amoch.  '  I'ld  be  in  favour 
myself  of  letting  a  man  sell  drink  as  he  likes,  the 
same  as  stockings.  Them  licenses  is  nothing  but  a 
scheme  for  taking  the  money  out  of  the  country  over 
to  England.' 

The  joints  of  mutton  and  the  hams  were  after 
awhile  succeeded  by  large  rhubarb  tarts.  These  also 
steamed.  Indeed,  Mary  moved,  as  she  brought  in  the 
last  of  them,  through  an  atmosphere  calculated  to 
swell  the  beads  of  perspiration  on  her  forehead.  Fresh 
bottles  replaced  those  whose  contents  had  disappeared. 
Conversation  became  general  and  loud.  Father  Fahy 
made  a  speech  in  proposing  Mr.  McCarty's  health. 
It  differed  from  other  speeches  of  its  kind  only  in 
being  plentifully  adorned  with  witticisms  based  on 
prison-life.  Mr.  McCarty  replied  eloquently.  In  a 
peroration  he  expressed  his  willingness  to  proceed,  if 
necessary,  from  the  prison  cell  to  the  scaffold.  He 
closed  by  reminding  his  hearers,  amid  shouts  of 
applause,  that  '  the  West  was  awake.' 

One  of  the  curates  had  opened  a  fourth  bottle  of 
the  '  peculiar  vintage '  while  McCarty  spoke,  and 
proceeded,  as  he  sat  down,  to  replenish  his  glass. 
McCarty  put  his  hand  over  it.  The  curate  persisted. 
McCarty  turned  the  glass  upside  down,  a  token  of 
determination  to  drink  no  more. 

'  Go  on,  man,'  said  Father  Fahy ;  '  it  won't  harm 
you.  It's  not  every  day  a  man  comes  out  of  prison.' 

'  I've  got  to  go  and  see  Mr.  O'Neill  this  afternoon," 


46  THE  SEETHING  POT 

he  explained.  'I  really  think  I'd  better  not  have 
another  glass.' 

'  Bedad,  then,  maybe  you're  right,'  said  Walsh. 
'  O'Neill's  a  patriot,  and  a  good  one.  I'ld  be  the  last 
man  to  say  a  word  against  him.  But  speaking 
privately— and  we're  all  friends  here — if  he  has  a 
fault,  it's  his  distrust  of  a  drop  of  drink.' 

'  I'll  send  you  out  on  my  car,'  said  Father  Fahy, 
'  if  you  must  go.  Come  with  me,  and  we'll  tell  the 
boy  to  put  to  the  mare.' 

He  led  McCarty  from  the  dining-room. 

'  Mr.  McCarty,'  he  said,  when  they  got  outside, 
'  there's  something  I  want  to  say  to  you.  Things 
have  been  going  on  a  bit  since  you  were  away.  John 
O'Neill  isn't  quite  as  big  a  man  as  he  used  to  be.  You 
understand  me  ?' 

'  I  do  not,'  said  McCarty. 

1  Well,  I  can't  be  saying  too  much,'  said  the  priest ; 
'  only,  don't  you  sit  down  under  his  grand  talk.'  He 
lowered  his  voice  to  a  whisper :  '  There's  people  that 
aren't  satisfied  with  John  O'Neill.' 

'  Well,  I'm  not  one  of  them,'  said  McCarty. 

'  I'm  not  saying  I  am,  either,'  said  the  priest.  '  Only 
just  if  I  was  a  member  of  Parliament,  I  wouldn't  let 
myself  be  put  upon  and  treated  like  a  dog.' 

'  I — I  don't  know  what  you  mean,'  said  McCarty. 
'  I  wouldn't  let  myself  be  bullied  by  John  O'Neill  any 
more  than  another.' 

The  priest  looked  at  him  curiously.  'That's  right,' 
he  said.  '  Stand  up  to  him.' 


THE  SEETHING  POT  47 

John  O'Neill  lived  about  two  miles  from  the  town 
of  Clogher.  His  house  nestled  down  to  the  shore  of 
one  of  the  innumerable  little  inlets  of  the  great  bay. 
At  full  tide  the  sea  washed  against  the  wall  at  the 
bottom  of  the  lawn.  The  windows,  from  which  in 
summer-time  the  final  glory  of  the  sunset  might  be 
watched,  were  often  crusted  with  sea-salt  after  a 
stormy  autumn  night.  The  house  itself  was  an  un- 
pretentious one.  Originally  it  had  been  a  '  lodge,'  let 
during  the  summer  to  tradesmen  from  inland  towns 
whose  families  sought  for  health  in  sea  -  bathing. 
Since  O'Neill  had  bought  it,  rooms  had  been  added  to 
one  side,  .and  then  to  the  other,  without  much  regard 
to  the  external  appearance  of  the  whole.  Here,  in  the 
intervals  of  quiet  which  he  snatched  from  his  politics, 
John  O'Neill  lived  a  lonely  life.  As  the  leader  of 
the  National  Parliamentary  party  he  was  cut  off  abso- 
lutely from  the  society  of  the  few  gentry  who  lived  in 
the  neighbourhood.  Himself  a  gentleman  and  sprung 
from  an  historic  Irish  family,  he  not  only  did  not  care 
to  cultivate,  but  deliberately  avoided,  social  intimacy 
with  most  of  the  men  who  followed  his  leading  in  the 
House  of  Commons.  His  religion  formed  yet  another 
safeguard  for  his  solitude,  for  he  was  a  Protestant. 
His  own  co-religionists  hated  him  heartily.  The 
Pioman  Catholic  priesthood  distrusted  him  even  while 
they  supported  his  policy. 

On  the  afternoon  when  Michael  McCarty  set  out 
from  the  priest's  house  to  call  on  him,  he  was  idling 
in  a  deep  chair  in  his  study  with  a  French  translation 


48  THE  SEETHING  POT 

of  one  of  Gabriele  d'Annunzio's  novels.  A  pipe  and  a 
litter  of  tobacco-ashes  lay  on  the  table  beside  him. 
Two  or  three  newspapers  and  magazines  were  strewed 
on  the  floor.  His  broad  writing-table  in  its  corner 
was  covered  with  a  confused  mass  of  papers.  His 
listless  attitude  suggested  nothing  of  the  boundless 
energy  and  force  which  had  made  him  the  unques- 
tioned leader  of  a  great  party,  the  dictator  of  a  nation's 
policy.  His  face,  especially  his  eyes,  proclaimed  a 
strength  of  character,  but  not  the  kind  of  strength 
which  is  likely  to  capture  the  imaginative  loyalty  of 
the  Celt.  John  O'Neill  was  a  puzzle  to  his  enemies 
and  friends  alike.  He  indulged  in  no  sunbursts  of 
oratory  at  political  meetings.  He  spoke  rarely,  and 
then  not  effectively,  in  the  House  of  Commons.  It 
was  suspected  that  he  planned  and  engineered  the 
'  scenes  in  the  House  '  over  which  the  English  press 
raged  impotently,  but  he  took  no  active  part  in  them. 
No  member  of  the  party  possessed  his  confidence,  nor 
was  it  easy  to  see  that  any  great  principle  guided  his 
moves  upon  the  political  chessboard.  At  critical  times 
he  received  with  equal  indifference  the  bids  which  the 
two  great  English  parties  made  for  his  support.  It 
was  rumoured  amongst  his  supporters  that  he  had  once 
said  to  a  Prime  Minister  :  '  I  have  no  objection  what- 
ever to  selling  my  eighty  votes  to  you  for  any  pur- 
pose, good  or  bad,  but  I  must  have  my  price.'  John 
O'Neill's  price  was  an  independent  Parliament  for 
Ireland,  and  no  English  Minister  had  as  yet  succeeded 
in  persuading  his  party  to  pay  it. 


THE  SEETHING  POT  49 

Michael  McCarty's  courage,  born  of  the  priest's 
champagne  and  the  priest's  advice,  oozed  quietly 
away  as  he  entered  his  chief's  room.  O'Neill  made 
no  pretence  of  politeness  to  his  follower.  He  neither 
rose  from  his  chair  nor  offered  to  shake  hands. 

'  So  that's  you,  McCarty,'  he  said.     '  Take  a  chair.' 

McCarty  dragged  one  a  few  feet  from  the  wall  it 
stood  against  and  sat  down. 

'  They've  let  you  out  of  Maryborough  Gaol  before 
your  time's  up,'  continued  O'Neill.  '  I  dare  say  you're 
not  sorry.  Three  months  in  prison  now  isn't  so 
pleasant  as  it  used  to  be.  This  new  plan  of  giving 
you  hard  labour  rather  spoils  the  little  holiday,  I 
expect.  How  did  you  like  it?' 

'  I  was  pretty  well  treated,'  said  McCarty.  '  They 
didn't  expect  me  to  do  much  work.' 

'  How  did  you  put  in  your  time  ?'  asked  O'Neill. 
*  Did  you  sit  in  a  cell  and  twiddle  your  thumbs  ?  I 
suppose  they  didn't  let  you  have  the  newspapers.' 

'  No,'  said  McCarty  ;  '  but  I  got  books.  I  tried  to 
make  the  best  use  I  could  of  them.  You  know  I  had 
little  or  no  education,  only  what  I  got  at  a  national 
school.  I  tried  to  learn  a  little  Latin  in  the  gaol.' 

'  Good  Lord !'  said  O'Neill.     '  What  for  ?' 

'I  suppose  you'll  only  laugh  at  me,'  said  McCarty, 
'  but  I've  always  felt  rny  want  of  education.  They 
say  knowledge  is  power.' 

'  That  saying,'  said  O'Neill,  '  is  a  ridiculous  lie. 
No  man  is  so  helpless  as  the  man  who  knows  a  iot 
of  things.' 

4 


50  THE  SEETHING  POT 

'  But,'  said  McCarty,  looking  round  at  the  crowded 
bookshelves,  '  you  must  read  a  good  deal.' 

*  I  read,'  said  O'Neill,  '  to  amuse  myself.  No  dne, 
except  a  few  silly  young  women,  read  for  any  other 
purpose.  I  see  you  looking  at  my  books.  Do  you 
know  what  they  are  ?  There  are  a  couple  of  shelves 
of  political  economy — great  nonsense,  all  of  it.  What's 
true  in  that  science  any  fool  can  see  for  himself 
without  a  book,  and  the  rest  no  one  but  a  fool  would 
read.  There  are  a  couple  of  dozen  volumes  of  poetry. 
Every  other  book  in  the  room  is  a  novel.  Some  are 
amusing,  some  aren't.  I  dare  say  your  mother  could 
tell  you  just  as  good  stones  if  you  would  listen  to  her.' 

McCarty  looked  at  him  pathetically.  He  had 
struggled  hard  at  his  Latin  grammar.  It  was  cruel 
now  to  have  his  ideal  of  knowledge  and  power  shat- 
tered. He  had  a  peasant's  reverence  for  a  printed 
book  of  any  kind.  He  could  not  understand  how  his 
mother's  rambling  traditions  could  be  of  value  as  com- 
pared, for  instance,  to  the  matter  in  a  strange  tongue 
that  lay  open  beside  O'Neill. 

'  Then,  you  think  it's  no  use  my  trying  to  educate 
myself,'  he  said.  '  I  hoped ' 

'  Not  the  least  bit  in  the  world,'  said  O'Neill. 
'  Read  the  newspapers.  Everything  that's  worth 
reading  is  in  them.  By  the  way,  now  you're  home 
again,  what  do  you  mean  to  do  with  yourself  ?  There 
is  no  use  our  going  over  to  Westminster  this  summer, 
and  there'll  be  no  autumn  session.  I  advise  you  take 
a  holiday.' 


THE  SEETHING  POT  51 

McCarty  looked  round  him  again.  A  pleasant  fire 
burnt  in  the  grate,  though  the  May  sun  was  shining 
outside.  There  was  a  soft  carpet  under  his  feet,  and 
an  atmosphere  of  what  seemed  luxury  around  him. 
His  thoughts  flew  back  to  the  cabin  where  his  mother 
lived.  He  remembered  that  hens  pecked  about  the 
earthen  floor  of  the  kitchen,  that  great  pots  of  turnips, 
boiled  for  the  pigs,  reeked  in  the  corners.  The  mouldy 
rooms  of  hotels  in  country  towns  seemed  abodes  of 
comfort  to  him  when  he  was  on  a  political  tour.  A 
holiday,  he  felt,  was  one  thing  to  John  O'Neill, 
another  thing  to  him.  Perhaps  O'Neill  understood 
something  of  what  was  passing  in  his  mind,  for  he 
said : 

'  Take  a  turn  on  the  farm  this  year — a  little  hay- 
making and  turf-cutting.  It'll  do  you  all  the  good  in 
the  world.  You're  not  the  man  to  be  ashamed  of  the 
home  where  you  were  reared.' 

'I'm  not  ashamed/  said  McCarty;  'I  love  every 
sod  of  the  old  place ;  but — but — well,  I  thought  of 
getting  up  a  few  meetings,  rousing  up  the  boys  in  the 
League,  and  putting  a  little  life  into  the  agitation.' 

'  Now,  that  is  just  exactly  the  thing  you're  not  to  do. 
I  want  no  agitation  here  at  present.  If  speeches  are 
going  to  burst  out  of  you  in  spite  of  yourself,  you 
must  go  a  good  way  off,  down  to  Kerry  or  Donegal  or 
somewhere,  but  you  mustn't  blow  them  off  here.' 

'  I'm  sorry,'  said  McCarty.  'I  thought  —  and, 
besides,  I've ' 

'  You  haven't  surely  made  a  speech  already  ?' 

4—2 


52  THE  SEETHING  POT 

1  Not  a  speech,'  said  McCarty.  '  Just  a  few  words 
at  the  railway-station.  There  was  a  deputation  to 
meet  me.' 

"What  did  you  say  ?' 

'  I  don't  exactly  remember.  The  new  landlord,  Sir 
Gerald,  you  know,  came  down  in  the  same  train ' 

'  That'll  do,'  said  O'Neill.  '  You  denounced  him, 
of  course.  That's  just  the  kind  of  idiotic  thing  you 
would  do.  But,"  he  added  more  kindly,  '  I  mustn't 
blame  you.  It  was  my  own  fault.  I  ought  to  have 
warned  you  beforehand  not  to  do  it.  But  no  more  of 
it.  I'll  give  you  plenty  of  talking  to  do  next  spring  in 
Westminster.  Just  keep  quiet  now  for  a  while.  And 
look  here :  if  you  really  want  to  read,  take  any  of  my 
books  you  like.  They're  totally  useless,  of  course,  but 
they  amused  me  more  or  less,  and  it's  just  possible 
they  might  amuse  you.' 

McCarty  refused  the  offer. 

*  Well,'  said  O'Neill,  '  I  suppose  you  are  wanting  to 
get  home  to  see  your  mother.  Good-bye.  I'm  glad 
you  came  to  see  me  at  once.' 

It  did  not  seem  to  occur  to  O'Neill  to  offer  his 
follower  even  the  limited  hospitality  of  a  cup  of  tea, 
but  as  soon  as  McCarty  left  he  went  into  the  drawing- 
room  to  look  for  some.  His  wife  was  busy  over  some 
account-books  when  he  entered.  She  was  a  pale, 
faded  little  woman  with  gentle  eyes,  the  kind  of 
woman  who  would  have  rejoiced  in  motherhood. 
Being  childless,  she  devoted  herself  to  charity.  So 
teal  and  so  unpretentious  were  her  good  works  that 


THE  SEETHING  POT  5$ 

even  her  husband's  political  opponents,  men  that 
would  not  willingly  have  admitted  the  good  points  of 
a  dog  belonging  to  John  O'Neill,  were  so  far  charitable 
as  to  express  their  regrets  that  '  the  poor  little  woman 
should  be  tied  to  a  scoundrel  like  O'Neill.'  In  reality, 
this  pity  was  entirely  wasted,  and  their  estimate  ol 
Mrs.  O'Neill's  position  and  character  wrong.  She  wae 
not  '  a  poor  little  woman,'  but  one  of  those  fortunate 
ones  who  had  won  and  kept  the  love  and  confidence  of 
a  husband.  No  one  would  have  guessed  by  looking  at 
her  that  John  O'Neill,  who  scorned  the  world's  judg- 
ment of  his  conduct,  respected  hers,  and,  even  where 
he  would  not  yield  to  her,  listened  carefully  to  what 
she  had  to  say.  She  alone  enjoyed  his  confidence, 
and,  what  she  valued  yet  more,  she  alone  ever  saw 
that  other  '  soul- side  '  which  a  man  shows  to  a  woma? 
when  he  loves  her. 

O'Neill  crossed  the  room  very  quietly  and  kissed 
her. 

'  John,'  she  said,  '  don't  be  silly.  You've  inter- 
rupted me.' 

'  What  are  you  doing  ?'  he  said.  '  Some  of  your 
charity  accounts?  You  know,  Lucy,  you'll  have  ug 
ruined  with  all  you  give  away.  Stop  now,  anyhow, 
and  let's  have  tea.  It  must  be  five  o'clock,  and  I'm 
thirsty  with  talking  to  a  fool.' 

'  I  saw  you  had  a  visitor,'  she  said.  '  Was  it  that 
young  man  who  has  just  got  out  of  prison  ?' 

'  Yes,1  said  O'Neill,  '  and  a  precious  ass  he's  made 
of  himself  since  he  got  loose.' 


54  THE  SEETHING  TOT 

'  I  wish,'  said  his  wife,  '  you'd  try  and  be  more — 
what  shall  I  say? — more  sympathetic  with  these 
people.  No  men  living  will  stand  being  treated  the 
way  you  treat  them.  Some  day  they'll  turn  on  you.' 

'  You're  wrong  there,  Lucy — at  least,  I  think  you're 
wrong.  You  don't  understand  the  Celt.  He's  not  a 
man  to  reason  with  or  persuade.  He  requires  a 
master,  someone  to  stand  over  him  with  a  whip.  If  I 
didn't  bully  him,  someone  else  would.  Probably  he'ld 
lie  down  on  his  back  and  ask  his  priest  to  walk  on 
him.' 

'  Exactly,'  said  Mrs.  O'Neill ;  '  but  you  forget  that 
his  priest  has  a  sort  of  right  to  walk  on  him,  and  you 
haven't.  Take  care  he  doesn't  find  that  out.  But 
what  about  this  particular  Celt  ?  How  did  he  make 
an  ass  of  himself  ?' 

'  He  made  a  speech,'  said  O'Neill,  '  just  the  one 
particular  kind  of  speech  I  didn't  want  made  here  at 
present.  Did  you  hear  that  Sir  Gerald  Geoghegan 
arrived  here  to-day  ?' 

'  No,'  said  his  wife.     '  But  go  on  about  the  speech.' 

'  I'm  going  on,'  said  O'Neill.  '  I  can't  go  any 
faster.  Well,  McCarty  came  in  the  same  train.  A 
lot  of  Poor  Law  Guardians,  and  people  of  that  sort, 
went  up  to  meet  him,  and  the  young  fool  went  and 
made  a  speech  abusing  Sir  Gerald  to  his  face  before 
he'd  been  ten  minutes  in  the  town.' 

'  Surely  you're  not  really  expecting  to  win  over 
that  young  man  ?' 

'  I  mean  to  have  a  try.     I  shall  go  and  call  on  him.' 


THE  SEETHING  POT  55 

Mrs.  O'Neill  was  painfully  conscious  oi  the  con- 
dition of  social  ostracism  in  which  they  lived.  She 
Buffered  from  it  for  her  own  sake,  and  yet  more, 
perhaps,  for  her  husband's. 

'  I  wish  you  wouldn't,'  she  said ;  '  you'll  only  throw 
yourself  open  to  a  fresh  snub.' 

'  Lucy,'  he  said,  '  you  don't  know  what  it  is  for  me 
to  be  the  leader  of  a  party  like  mine.  When  they  talk 
about  my  band  of  hired  gladiators,  and  throw  it  in 
my  teeth  that  I'm  financing  an  agitation  with  the 
wages  of  New  York  servant-girls,  I  feel  as  if  I  would 
do  anything  almost  to  have  just  one  man  of  position 
and  property  on  my  side.  If  there  was  the  faintest 
chance  that  the  gentry  of  the  country  would  ever  do 
anything  else  than  lick  the  boots  of  Englishmen,  I'ld 
chuck  up  this  wretched  land  agitation  to-morrow. 
But  they  won't.  I  know  them.  They  care  nothing 
about  Ireland.  They'ld  see  her  turned  into  an 
English  shire  to-morrow  without  an  effort  to  help 
her,  if  they  could  only  make  sure  of  getting  their 
beggarly  rents.  But  this  young  man  is  different, 
Lucy — at  least,  he  ought  to  be  different.' 

'  Because  of  his  father,  you  mean  ?' 

'  Yes,'  said  O'Neill ;  '  he  must  know  what  his  father 
did  in  '48.  The  blood's  in  him — the  good  fighting 
Irish  blood.  It's  worth  trying.  I  might  get  him,' 

Mrs.  O'Neill  sighed. 

'It's  a  poor  chance,  John,  and  I'm  afraid  you'll 
suffer.' 

'  Don't  be  so  solemn  over  it,'  he  said.     '  Wake  up, 


56  THE  SEETHING  POT 

and  let  us  make  plans — crafty,  diabolical  plans — for 
snaring  the  young  man's  soul.  What  would  you  say 
if  I  put  on  a  top-hat  and  go  to  church  with  you  next 
Sunday?' 

'  I  wish  you  would.' 

'  Oh,  I'll  only  go  in  the  worst  possible  spirit.  Last 
time  I  went,  you  know,  Canon  Johnston  compared  me 
to  Judas  Iscariot.  You  can't  expect  a  man  to  go  in  a 
Christian  spirit  to  listen  to  politics  grafted  into  the 
New  Testament.' 

'  He's  quite  given  up  political  sermons  lately,'  said 
Mrs.  O'Neill.  'He  has  started  off  at  the  Book  of 
Genesis.  I  gave  up  listening  after  the  first  sermon 
on  the  subject,  but  I  know  he  said  something  about 
its  being  a  mosaic  of  ancient  fragments.' 

'  That  sounds  pretty  safe,'  said  O'Neill.  '  I  think 
I'll  venture.  He  can  hardly  work  me  into  the  higher 
criticism  of  the  Book  of  Genesis,  though,  indeed,  if 
he  knew  I  came  in  the  hopes  of  seducing  young  Sir 
Gerald  from  the  true  political  fold,  he  might  see  a 
resemblance  between  me  and  Potiphar's  wife.' 


CHAPTEK  V 

Sr\  GEBALD  found  his  new  life  very  much  to  his 
liking.  It  seemed  to  him  full  of  interests  and  possi- 
bilities. In  the  first  place,  he  was  determined  to 
master  the  details  of  the  management  of  his  estate. 
Mr.  Godfrey  welcomed  him  warmly  in  the  rent-office, 
and  was  untiring  in  answering  questions  and  explain- 
ing the  meaning  of  the  various  Acts  of  Parliament 
which  have  affected  the  tenure  of  Irish  land.  Sir 
Gerald  entered  on  his  investigation  with  a  prejudice 
against  his  own  position.  He  had  learnt  somehow  to 
think  of  Irish  landlords  as  a  race  of  tyrants  from 
whose  clutches  benevolent  Governments  were  trying 
to  rescue  helpless  tenants.  He  realized  with  a  good 
deal  of  surprise  that  most  of  the  enactments  of  Par- 
liament dealing  with  Irish  land  were  well-intentioned 
blunders  which  had  resulted  in  a  kind  of  deadlock. 
Landlords  could  not,  and  tenants  would  not,  attempt 
any  improvements.  He  was  still  further  surprised  to 
find  that  his  own  estate  had  been  managed  for  many 
years  with  the  greatest  consideration  for  the  tenants. 
Many  of  them  were  very  poor.  Large  portions  of  the 
estate  were  divided  into  miserably  small  holdings,  for 

57 


58  THE  SEETHING  POT 

which  the  tenants  paid  rents  that  were  little  more 
than  nominal.  Even  these  rents  were  often  far  hi 
arrear,  but  it  was  very  seldom  that  anyone  had  been 
severely  pressed  for  payment.  Evictions  were  ex- 
tremely rare,  and  only  took  place  when  there  seemed 
no  possibility  of  the  tenant  ever  becoming  solvent. 
Mr.  Godfrey  showed  him  a  private  list  of  charities, 
from  which  it  appeared  that  considerable  sums  were 
paid  every  year  for  the  relief  of  exceptional  distress 
among  the  poorer  tenants.  Here  were  entered  gifts 
of  £W  to  men  who  had  lost  a  couple  of  bullocks,  and 
to  others  whom  illness  had  incapacitated  for  work. 
Here  were  repeated  doles  to  widows,  loans  for  the 
purchase  of  seed  oats  or  potatoes,  apprentice  fees 
paid  for  boys,  and  money  allowed  for  the  outfit  of 
girls  going  out  to  service. 

'  This  money,'  said  Mr.  Godfrey,  '  was  entrusted  to 
me  by  your  predecessors.  I  hope  you  will  give  me  a 
similar  sum.  Many  of  your  people  require  such  help 
from  time  to  time,  and  it  will  hardly  be  possible  for  me 
to  explain  the  merits  of  each  particular  case  to  you.' 

Sir  Gerald  was  pleased  to  see  that  the  Church  was 
liberally  supported.  A  regular  sum  was  set  apart  yearly 
for  the  payment  of  the  Rector's  stipend  and  the  main- 
tenance of  the  schools  and  other  parochial  charities.  It 
appeared,  also,  that  ^6100  a  year  was  paid  over  to  the 
Roman  Catholic  administrator  of  the  parish.  It 
gratified  Sir  Gerald  to  think  that  the  religion  of  the 
majority  of  his  tenants  received  substantial  help  from 
the  estate. 


THE  SEETHING  POT  59 

'  I  see,'  he  said,  '  that  you  enter  this  money  as  paid 
to  Father  Fahy  for  the  support  of  parochial  institu- 
tions. I  hope  it  is  wisely  expended.' 

Mr.  Godfrey  smiled. 

'  I  know  nothing  about  that. 

Sir  Gerald  was  puzzled. 

'  But  the  parochial  institutions — what  are  they  ? 
Reading-rooms,  clothing-clubs,  and  that  sort  of  thing, 
I  suppose  ?' 

'  I  never  ask  questions  about  the  money,'  said 
Mr.  Godfrey,  '  and  if  I  did  I  shouldn't  get  an  answer.' 

'  But  surely '  said  Sir  Gerald. 

'  If  you  are  wise,  you'll  allow  that  money  to  be  paid 
as  it  has  always  been.' 

His  agent's  reticence  and  obvious  dislike  of  speaking 
his  mind  irritated  Sir  Gerald,  and  roused  in  him  a 
spirit  of  opposition. 

'  Why  do  you  attach  such  importance  to  this  par- 
ticular payment  ?'  he  asked. 

'  It's  worth  w  hile  making  it  because — if  you  will 
have  it — because  it  gives  us  a  sort  of  hold  over  Father 
Fahy.  It  might  be  stopped,  you  know,  and — well,  as 
long  as  it  is  paid  things  won't  get  much  beyond 
the  talking  stage  here.  The  estate  will  be  easily 
managed.' 

'  I  see,'  said  Sir  Gerald  slowly.  '  The  money  is,  in 
fact,  a  bribe  to  the  priest  to  keep  the  people  quiet. 
It  is  my  danegelt.' 

'  I  shouldn't  put  it  that  way,'  said  Mr.  Godfrey. 
*  I  prefer  to  say  that  you  liberally  support  the  Roman 


60  THE  SEETHING  POT 

Catholic  clergy,  and  that  they  are  not  so  hostile  to 
you  as  to  most  of  the  Protestant  landlords.  This 
estate  came  through  the  bad  times  better  than  any 
other  in  the  county.  The  agitation  here  never  reached 
a  dangerous  head.  If  the  rest  of  the  gentry  had  done 
as  your  family  did,  there  never  would  have  been  a 
land  agitation.  The  priests  would  have  been  our 
most  valuable  allies.' 

'  I  think  I  understand/  said  Sir  Gerald, '  but  I  don't 
like  it.' 

'  I  don't  see,'  said  Mr.  Godfrey,  '  why  you  need 
bother  yourself  about  the  rights  and  wrongs  of  it.  It 
works  well,  and  when  you  know  this  country  a  bit 
better  you'll  be  thankful  to  get  a  hold  of  a  thing  that 
will  work  at  all.' 

Sir  Gerald  left  the  office  profoundly  dissatisfied. 
It  had  not  yet  become  clear  to  him  that  a  landlord's 
sole  aim  ought  to  be  the  successful  gathering  in  of  his 
rents.  That  Mr.  Godfrey's  plan  worked  well  for  that 
end  did  not  seem  to  be  a  complete  justification  of  it. 
Besides,  there  was  another  side  to  the  question  on 
which  Mr.  Godfrey  had  not  touched.  A  bargain — he 
tried  to  put  the  thing  nakedly  to  himself — between  a 
landlord  and  a  priest  might  be  well  enough,  but  there 
were  also  the  people  to  be  considered.  He  disliked 
the  idea  of  setting  himself  against  Mr.  Godfrey's 
wishes  and  advice  in  a  matter  touching  the  practical 
management  of  the  estate.  Very  much  of  what  he 
had  learnt  about  his  agent's  methods  was  so  entirely 
in  accordance  with  his  own  ideas  of  what  was  right 


THE  SEETHING  POT  61 

that  it  was  hard  to  object  to  this  particular  point. 
He  was  also  beginning  to  understand  how  difficult  a 
task  an  Irish  land  agent  undertakes.  To  be  popular 
with  the  people  was,  he  saw,  a  complete  impossibility. 
To  secure  the  landlord's  interests  without  open  war- 
fare was  hard  enough.  Why  should  he  make  it 
harder  by  interfering  in  a  matter  which  his  agent  was 
likely  to  understand  much  better  than  he  did  ?  And 
his  interests  had  been  well  looked  after.  His  income 
was  a  good  one,  it  even  seemed  to  him  a  princely 
one.  Could  he,  in  common  gratitude,  turn  round  and 
accuse  of  dishonourable  conduct — for  that  was  what  it 
amounted  to — the  man  who  served  him  so  well  ? 

Sir  Gerald's  mind  was  still  vacillating  between 
what  seemed  the  reasonable  course  and  his  instinctive 
shrinking  from  the  bargain,  when  he  paid  his  next 
visit  to  the  office.  Mr.  Godfrey  evidently  assumed 
that  there  was  nothing  more  to  be  said  on  the  subject 
of  the  grant  to  Father  Fahy.  He  entered  upon  a 
discussion  about  some  land  which  was  in  Sir  Gerald's 
own  hands.  There  was  a  question  about  the  letting 
of  this  land  for  grazing  purposes  or  stocking  and 
working  it.  As  he  turned  over  some  maps  which  lay 
upon  his  desk,  Mr.  Godfrey  came  upon  a  newspaper. 

'  Ah,'  he  said,  '  I  was  nearly  forgetting  to  show  you 
this.  It  is  sure  to  amuse  you.' 

Sir  Gerald  looked  at  it.  It  was  a  copy  of  The 
Connaitght  News. 

*  It's  our  local  Tag,'  said  Mr.  Godfrey,  '  published 
every  week  This  week  it's  particularly  spicy.  It 


62  THE  SEETHING  POT 

contains  a  full  account  of  your  arrival  in  Clogher,  and 
a  report  of  McCarty's  speech.' 

Sir  Gerald  glanced  at  the  article  pointed  out  to  him. 
It  was  headed  '  A  Degenerate  Son.'  He  began  to  read, 
and  after  the  first  few  lines  the  meaning  of  the  title 
dawned  on  him.  The  article  opened  with  a  brief 
sketch  of  his  father's  political  career.  A  highly 
coloured  word-picture  followed  of  an  entirely  imaginary 
scene  at  the  departure  of  his  father  from  Ireland. 
'  The  noble  exile,'  he  read,  '  stood  at  the  stern  of  the 
departing  ship,  waving  his  hands  and  speaking  words 
of  comfort  and  encouragement  to  the  weeping  crowds 
who  knelt  upon  the  shore.  It  was  for  their  sakes  that 
Gerald  Geoghegan,  "  the  rebel,"  braved  death  and 
suffered  imprisonment  and  banishment.'  The  article 
went  on  to  describe  the  son  of  this  patriot — the 
present  Sir  Gerald — returning  to  the  home  of  his 
ancestors.  Crowds  meet  him,  but  only  to  scorn  and 
'  vituperate  him.'  The  editor's  feelings  sometimes 
required  the  use  of  the  longest  words  discoverable, 
'  One  hand  alone  is  stretched  out  to  welcome  him, 
and  that  the  hand  of  the  hired  tool  of  his  tyrannies.' 

Sir  Gerald  folded  the  paper  and  rose.  His  face  was 
flushed  with  anger  and  shame.  He  tried  to  speak 
quietly,  but  only  succeeded  in  stammering  out : 

'  May  I  take  this  home  with  me  ?  I  should  like  to 
read  it  by  myself.' 

Mr.  Godfrey  saw  that  the  young  man  was  really 
hurt  by  the  article.  He  laid  a  hand  upon  his  arm. 

'  My  dear  fellow/  he  said,  '  you  must  not  take  these 


THE  SEETHING  POT  63 

things  to  heart.  When  you  have  had  as  much  of 
thin  sort  of  abuse  as  I  have,  it  will  only  amuse  you.' 

'  Why  need  they  have  dragged  my  father  into  it  ?' 

'  These  fellows,'  said  Mr.  Godfrey,  'are nothing  but 
a  pack  of  blackguards.  What  can  you  expect  from  a 
pig  but  a  grunt  ?' 

Sir  Gerald  walked  down  the  street  and  through  the 
gates  of  the  demesne  with  the  paper  in  his  hand. 
When  he  felt  himself  free  from  observation,  he  un- 
folded and  read  it  again.  The  editor  drew  a  touching 
picture  of  McGarty  returning  emaciated  from  the 
prison-house  of  the  oppressor.  The  enthusiasm  of  a 
great  people  greeted  this  martyr  as  he  stepped  from 
his  third-class  carriage.  '  The  curled  and  scented 
representative  of  the  ancient  tyranny  descends  from 
the  luxurious  cushions  of  his  saloon.  Which  of  the 
two  is  the  true  son,  the  spiritual  son,  of  Gerald 
Geoghegan  the  rebel  ?' 

When  he  reached  his  study,  he  flung  himself  into  a 
chair  and  sobbed  aloud.  There  is  a  certain  power  in 
printed  words.  When  they  are  cruel  or  unjust,  it 
seems  as  if  nothing  can  ever  be  right  again.  After  a 
time,  no  doubt,  the  men  whom  newspapers  delight  to 
discuss  become  callous ;  but  at  first — and  this  was 
Sir  Gerald's  first  experience  of  publicity — life  has  few 
keener  pleasures  and  few  sharper  pains  than  printed 
words  convey. 

If  he  had  been  familiar  with  Irish  life,  he  might 
have  been  able  to  estimate  the  true  worth  of  what  he 
read.  In  Ireland  no  one  ever  tries  to  be  just.  Public 


64  THE  SEETHING  POT 

speakers  and  writers  for  the  daily  press  are  entirely 
without  a  sense  of  responsibility.  Like  the  fool  in  the 
Book  of  Proverbs,  they  fling  firebrands,  not  considering 
that  there  may  be  inflammable  matter  about.  Their 
conduct  is  really  not  so  bad  as  it  seems,  for  men  on 
every  side  have  learnt  to  treat  three-fourths  of  what 
they  hear  and  read  as  merely  a  kind  of  vigorous 
emphasis.  In  a  street  row,  when  a  man  damns  your 
soul  frequently  and  freely,  you  do  not  suppose  that 
he  either  contemplates  or  wishes  for  your  residence 
in  hell  hereafter.  In  Ireland  language  is  used  in  the 
same  kind  of  way.  The  editor  of  The  Connauglit  News 
had  no  special  feeling  of  dislike  for  Sir  Gerald.  Very 
likely  he  rather  despised  McCarty.  But  Sir  Gerald 
was  on  one  side,  and  he  was  on  another,  in  a  not  dis- 
agreeable tussle,  so  he  poured  forth  his  curses  without 
the  least  idea  that  anyone  would  take  them  seriously. 
Occasionally  an  English  Government  official  pounces 
suddenly  on  a  fervid  orator  or  scribe,  and  insists 
foolishly  that  his  words  bear  their  obvious  meaning. 
No  one  is  more  surprised  than  the  victim  when  he  is 
sent  to  prison.  The  sense  of  injustice  rankles  in  him, 
for  he  knows  he  did  not  mean  what  he  said,  and  that 
no  one  except  a  Government  officiaHvould  suppose  he 
did. 

Unfortunately,  Sir  Gerald  didn't  understand  Ireland 
any  more  than  English  politicians  do.  He  took  what 
he  read  at  its  face  value,  and  suffered,  accordingly,  in 
a  quite  unnecessary  way.  '  They  might  have  waited,' 
he  thought,  '  till  they  knew  me.'  He  was  conscious 


THE  SEETHING  POT  65 

of  his  own  desire  to  servo  his  country.  He  had  come 
among  the  people  without  one  selfish  thought.  He 
had  desired  to  love  Ireland,  to  give  himself  for  Ireland!, 
and  already  he  was  judged  and  condemned  on  no 
better  grounds  than  that  he  had  travelled  first-clasfc 
and  shaken  hands  with  his  agent.  His  irritation 
gradually  got  the  better  of  the  pain  he  felt. 

'After  all,'  he  said  aloud,  '  they  are  what  Godfrey 
called  them — a  pack  of  blackguards.' 

He  had  just  spread  the  paper  out  on  the  table  t® 
read  the  article  again,  when  a  visitor  was  announced ; 

'  Canon  Johnston  to  see  you,  sir.' 

The  Canon,  following  hard  on  the  servant,  entered 
the  library.  The  clergyman  was  no  fool  in  ordinary 
life.  He  suffered  under  the  disadvantage  of  being  the 
only  man  in  Clogher  who  ever  read  anything  except 
a  second-rate  novel.  The  consequence  of  this  was 
that  he  had  a  quite  ridiculously  high  opinion  of  his 
own  intellectual  attainments.  In  the  pulpit  he  boldly 
dogmatized  on  subjects  he  would  never  have  dared  to 
touch  if  he  had  lived  among  educated  people.  It  really 
mattered  very  little,  however,  what  he  preached  about, 
for  no  one,  not  even  his  wife,  ever  listened  to  him. 
Out  of  the  pulpit  he  talked  sense  on  every-day  matters, 
and  there  were  few  of  his  parishioners,  from  Mr. 
Godfrey  down,  who  did  not  recognise  gladly  that  hi* 
advice  made  for  a  practical  kind  of  righteousness. 

It  was  his  first  visit  to  the  new  landlord,  and  his 
eyes,  roaming  in  search  of  indications  of  what  kind  of 
man  Sir  Gerald  was,  fell  on  The  Connaught  Neivs 

5 


66  THE  SEETHING  POT 

spread  open  at  the  offending  article.  Before  his  formal 
greeting  was  over,  he  saw  that  Sir  Gerald  was  disturbed 
and  annoyed. 

4  I  see,'  he  said,  'you've  been  reading  that  scoundrel 
Murphy's  article  about  you.' 

4  Yes,'  said  Sir  Gerald.  '  It's  a  disgraceful  libel.  I 
came  here '  He  hesitated. 

'  Of  courser's  disgraceful,'  said  the  Canon ; '  Murphy 
wouldn't  print  it  if  it  wasn't.  It's  really  a  credit  to  a 
man,  a  sort  of  hall-mark  of  respectability,  to  be  abused 
in  The  Connaugkt  News.' 

4  But  it's  dreadful,'  said  Sir  Gerald ;  '  I  wanted  to 
be  friends  with  the  people  and  to  help  them.' 

4  So  you  can,  and  so  you  will,  but  they  will  abuse 
you  just  the  same.  They're  bound  to  do  it,  you 
know.  The  political  ball  has  got  to  be  kept  rolling. 
You  are  on  one  side,  and  they  are  on  the  other.' 

4  But  we  are  all  Irishmen.  We  ought  to  unite  for 
the  good  of  our  country.' 

4  When  you  are  here  a  little  longer/  said  the  Canon, 
4  you  will  understand — excuse  my  speaking  plainly — 
that  that  sort  of  thing  is  all  moonshine.  Of  course 
we  are  all  Irishmen  in  a  sense.  I  live  in  Ireland,  so 
I  suppose  I'm  Irish ;  but  what  is  Ireland,  after  all,  but 
a  geographical  expression  ?  There  is  an  Ireland  in 
just  the  same  way  that  there  is  a  Yorkshire,  but  no 
more.' 

4 1  don't  agree  with  you  in  the  least,'  said  Sir 
Gerald. 

4  Ah,  I  dare  say  not ;  but  after  a  while  you  will.  You 


THE  SEETHING  POT  67 

don't  suppose,  now,  that  Murphy  cares  a  pin  about 
Ireland,  or  abuses  you  because  he  thinks  you  are  a 
foreigner.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Patriotism  is  all  talk. 
The  real  matter  is  quite  different.  If  you  declared 
yourself  a  Nationalist  or  a  Fenian  to-morrow,  it 
wouldn't  make  a  bit  of  difference.' 

'  I  don't  understand,'  said  Sir  Gerald.  '  What  are 
Irish  politics  about  if  they  are  not  a  struggle  for 
nationality  ?' 

The  Canon  laughed. 

'  They  are  about  the  same  thing  as  politics  every- 
where else,  I  suppose.  There  is  a  struggle  between 
those  who  have  got  something  and  want  to  keep  it, 
and  those  who  haven't  got  something  but  want  to  get 
it.  In  Ireland  the  only  thing  to  have  or  get  is  land. 
You  happen  to  have  it ;  they  want  to  get  it.  That  is 
the  beginning  and  end  of  Irish  politics.  Everything 
else  is  high-falutin  talk  thrown  in  for  the  sake  of 
decency.' 

'  I  can't  believe  that,'  said  Sir  Gerald.  '  The  whole 
thing  would  be  impossibly  degrading.' 

'  I  suppose,'  said  the  Canon  after  a  pause,  '  that  it 
is,  as  you  say,  degrading ;  but,  you  see,  we  can't  help 
ourselves.  You  and  I  are  on  one  side ;  I  put  in 
myself  because  the  interests  of  Protestantism  are 
bound  up  with  those  of  the  landlords.  We  are  born 
on  one  side,  put  there  by  the  Almighty,  and  we've 
got  to  fight  our  corner  and  keep  our  end  up  as  long 
as  we  can.  They  fight  their  corner,  and  I  shouldn't 
blame  them  if  they  only  fought  fair,  but  they  don't.' 

5—2 


68  THE  SEETHING  POT 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  The  Connaught  News  to  illus- 
trate his  point. 

Sir  Gerald  hesitated.  Certainly  the  editor  was  not 
fighting  fair,  and  it  did  seem  as  if  his  utterly  unpro- 
voked attack  had  arisen  out  of  some  understanding  of 
the  situation  similar  to  Canon  Johnston's.  At  last 
he  said :  '  But  surely  in  these  matters  there  is  some 
right  and  wrong  ?' 

'  Of  course  there  is,'  said  the  Canon.  '  Our  side  is 
right  and  theirs  is  wrong.  They  want  to  take  your 
property,  and  they  are  gradually  getting  it.  There 
are  two  commandments  in  the  decalogue  which  apply 
— the  tenth  and  the  eighth.  I  don't  say  anything 
about  either  the  ninth  or  the  sixth,  though  they  don't 
hesitate  to  break  them  both  when  it  suits  them.' 

The  Canon's  philosophy  was  amazingly  simple,  and 
the  man  himself  was  evidently  quite  sincere  in  his 
belief  in  it.  Moreover,  there  was  something  in  its 
straightforward  acceptance  of  battle  as  inevitable  that 
appealed  to  Sir  Gerald.  As  his  feelings  about  the 
article  grew  cooler,  there  arose  in  him  a  great  desire 
to  hit  back  at  the  man  or  the  party  that  had  stabbed 
him. 


CHAPTER  VI 

ANGER  with  most  people  is  like  a  scratch  on  a  healthy 
body :  it  stings  for  a  little  while,  but  if  there  is  nothing 
to  rub  it  and  keep  up  the  irritation,  it  rapidly  heals. 
Sir  Gerald  was  surprised  to  find  how  soon  the  article 
in  The  Connaught  News  ceased  to  trouble  him.  Not 
only  did  he  find  it  quite  impossible  to  nurse  his  desire 
of  being  revenged  for  the  insult :  he  even  caught  him- 
self occasionally  sentimentalizing  somewhat  in  his  old 
fashion  about  Kathaleen  ny-Houlahan  and  the  glories 
and  wrongs  of  Ireland.  His  first  actual  touch  on 
Irish  political  life  had  a  certain  effect  on  his  dream- 
ings.  Before  he  came  to  Ireland  he  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  think  of  himself  as  one  of  the  people, 
identified  with  their  hopes,  a  willing  soldier  in  the 
battle  they  were  fighting.  Now  he  liked  rather  to 
look  back  into  the  past,  or  forward  to  a  remote  future. 
He  shrank  from  bringing  his  sentimental  patriotism 
into  any  relation  with  what  was  going  on  around  him. 
There  was  nothing  to  force  him  to  take  any  active 
part  in  local  affairs  or  in  the  wider  politics  of  the 
nation.  Everyone  around  him  assumed,  as  Canon 
Johnston  did,  that  the  part  he  had  to  play  was  settled 

69 


70  THE  SEETHING  POT 

for  him  by  his  position.  An  Irish  landlord  is  like  a 
general  in  a  strongly  entrenched  position.  So  far  as 
public  life  is  concerned,  he  is  confined  to  a  policy  of 
defensive  inactivity.  It  is  impossible  for  him  to  take 
part  in  local  administration,  and  only  a  few  are  in  a 
position  to  make  their  influence  felt  in  the  counsels 
of  the  Government.  After  a  while,  too,  Sir  Gerald 
realized  that  there  was  very  little  for  him  to  do  in 
the  management  of  his  estate.  The  details  which 
Mr.  Godfrey  submitted  to  his  consideration  did  not 
interest  him.  He  came  by  degrees  to  a  comfortable 
decision  to  leave  the  whole  matter  in  his  agent's 
hands. 

Yet  his  life  during  the  first  few  weeks  at  Clogher 
was  far  from  dull.  Mrs.  Jameson,  the  butler's  wife, 
was  anxious  to  assume  the  position  of  housekeeper 
in  a  great  establishment.  She  impressed  upon  Sir 
Gerald  the  necessity  of  engaging  a  proper  staff  of 
servants.  There  was  no  reason  at  all  why  she  should 
not  be  gratified.  Sir  Gerald  appreciated  the  orderly 
regularity  of  his  household  under  her  management. 
He  rapidly  acquired  a  taste  for  a  certain  ceremonial 
stateliness  in  his  surroundings.  It  pleased  him  to  sit 
down  to  dinner  with  snowy  linen  and  shining  silver 
and  glass  before  him.  When  a  footman  was  found  to 
join  Jameson  in  attending  him,  there  seemed  to  be  a 
pleasant  dignity  added  to  life.  He  had  understood 
comfort  before  he  came  to  Ireland,  for  his  father  had 
left  him  well  off.  He  now  came  to  appreciate  the 
ritual  of  smoothly  ordered  service  which  goes  to  make 


THE  SEETHING  POT  71 

up  the  dignity  of  a  rich  man's  life.  Jameson,  too, 
had  suggestions  to  make.  There  were  wines  which 
should  be  bought,  furniture  which  required  renewing. 
He  deferentially  pointed  out  certain  deficiencies  in  Sir 
Gerald's  wardrobe.  Out  of  doors  things  were  much 
the  same.  The  coachman  had  during  his  late  master's 
time  been  obliged  to  confine  his  energies  to  the  care 
of  two  elderly  horses  and  a  rather  dilapidated  landau. 
Sir  Gerald  was  not  inclined  to  provide  himself  at  once 
with  a  large  stud,  but  it  seemed  reasonable  to  purchase 
a  smart  dogcart  and  to  look  out  for  a  good  cob.  The 
help  of  a  groom  was  accepted  by  the  coachman  as  an 
instalment  of  the  large  stable  establishment  he  hoped 
to  rule  in  future.  The  gardener,  who  made  no  secret 
of  his  belief  that  a  Lady  Geoghegan  with  a  taste  for 
flowers  might  be  expected,  required  certain  additions 
to  his  staff  and  improvements  in  his  hothouses.  The 
gamekeeper  did  his  best  to  awaken  sporting  instincts 
in  his  new  master.  There  are  few  pleasanter  things 
than  spending  and  planning  to  spend  considerable 
sums  of  money  when  there  is  no  fear  whatever  of 
overdrawing  a  banking  account.  These  tasks  are 
robbed  of  any  possible  irksomeness  when  a  number  of 
intelligent  and  deferential  men  and  women  suggest 
various  obviously  advantageous  schemes  of  outlay. 

Another  interest  in  Sir  Gerald's  life  was  furnished 
by  the  visits  of  those  of  the  inhabitants  of  Clogher 
whose  social  position  entitled  them  to  call  upon  him. 
The  doctor,  an  elderly  gentleman  with  a  smart  pair  of 
horses,  spent  his  time  with  Sir  Gerald  in  explaining 


78  THE  SEETHING  POT 

the  iniquities  of  the  Irish  dispensary  system.  The 
manager  of  the  Bank  of  Ireland,  after  feeling  his  way 
round  several  topics,  finally  rode  through  his  visit  on 
his  own  hobby,  which  was  gardening.  A  militia 
Colonel,  who  owned  a  small  property  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, was  evidently  anxious  that  Sir  Gerald  should 
promote  sociability  by  giving  garden-parties.  Most 
of  the  great  land- owners  of  the  neighbourhood  were 
absentees,  but  Lord  Clonfert,  who  had  resided  all  his 
Mfe  on  his  estate,  was  among  the  first  to  call  at 
Clogher  House. 

This  nobleman  had  inherited  while  still  a  young 
man  a  hopelessly  mortgaged  and  almost  bankrupt 
estate  from  his  father,  a  famous  rake,  who  had 
married  in  his  old  age  a  very  pretty  peasant  girl,  the 
daughter  of  one  of  his  own  tenants.  He  had  insisted 
©n  her  becoming  a  Protestant  and  spending  her  days 
in  the  drawing-room.  It  may  have  been  the  coldness 
©f  her  new  faith,  the  want  of  freedom,  or,  as  was  un- 
kindly suggested,  the  unaccustomed  confinement  of 
shoes  and  stockings,  which  ruined  the  health  of  this 
Lady  Clonfert.  She  died  young,  leaving  her  husband 
with  a  little  boy,  for  whom  he  did  nothing  but  provide 
too  much  pocket-money  at  Eton,  and,  his  affairs  at 
that  time  having  reached  a  climax,  an  insufficient 
allowance  at  Oxford.  Shortly  after  coming  of  age, 
this  Lord  Clonfert  performed  the  one  definite  action 
of  his  life :  he  married  the  only  daughter  of  a  wealthy 
London  stockbroker.  The  lady  brought  not  only 
money,  but  brains,  and  a  strong  sense  of  duty  to  the 


THE  SEETHING  POT  73 

dilapidated  Clonfert  estate.  Her  money  cleared  Lord 
Clonfert  from  all  embarrassment,  and  left  him  free  to 
breed  cattle  in  an  inefficient  way  and  grumble  quietly 
at  the  way  Ireland  was  governed.  Her  brains  and 
capacity  in  practical  matters  secured  him  comfort  and 
amusement.  It  did  not  annoy  him  in  the  least  that 
she  should  take  the  management  of  his  affairs  into 
her  hands,  or  that  she  should  regard  him  as  little 
better  than  a  fool.  Her  sense  of  duty  threatened,  as 
years  went  on,  to  become  the  most  serious  trouble  of 
his  life.  At  first  it  had  confined  her  energies  almost 
entirely  to  the  bringing  forth  and  rearing  of  two  sons 
and  a  daughter.  Since  the  boys  had  both  obtained 
their  commissions  in  the  army,  and  her  daughter  had 
left  the  schoolroom  and  shaken  herself  more  or  less 
free  of  her  mother's  control,  Lady  Clonfert's  sense  of 
duty  led  her  to  undertake  the  improvement  of  her 
neighbours.  Her  '  own  clergyman ' — it  was  thus  that 
she  always  spoke  of  old  Mr.  Conerney — was  the  first  to 
suffer.  But  the  Church  of  Ireland  in  the  West  offers 
only  a  limited  scope  for  an  energetic  woman,  and  she 
soon  turned  her  attention  to  the  private  lives  of  her 
husband's  tenants.  It  was  at  this  point  that  she 
began  to  interfere  with  Lord  Clonfert's  happiness. 
He  detested  improvements  of  all  kinds.  He  had  the 
strongest  sympathy  with  the  people  who  wanted  to  be 
let  alone,  and  he  particularly  disliked  being  made  to 
write  letters  and  act  on  committees. 

He  was  too  wise  a  man  to  openly  oppose,  or  even 
publicly  grumble  at,  his  wife's  plans.     He  found  vent 


74  THE  SEETHING  POT 

for  his  feelings  in  copious  abuse  of  the  Congested 
Districts  Board.  The  excellent  gentlemen  who  com- 
pose this  Board  devise  schemes  for  improving  the 
breeds  of  horses,  cows,  pigs,  and  hens,  in  the  West  of 
Ireland.  They  try  to  persuade  the  peasants  to  grow 
potatoes  on  an  improved  system,  and  to  catch  fish  in 
larger  numbers.  They  sometimes  buy  estates  and 
build  remarkably  ugly  houses  on  the  tops  of  shelter- 
less hills  for  the  tenants  to  live  in.  All  these  things- 
were  sins  in  the  eyes  of  Lord  Clonfert.  His  detesta- 
tion of  the  Board  gradually  became  the  strongest 
feeling  in  his  life.  On  one  occasion  he  had  publicly 
shaken  hands  with  and  commended  a  particularly 
disreputable  local  politician  called  Kerrigan.  This 
man  had  made  a  speech  in  which  he  described  the 
agents  of  the  Congested  Districts  Board  as  a  '  lot  of 
spalpeens  who'd  never  rest  continted  till  every  blessed 
cock  in  the  country  laid  an  egg  before  his  breakfast 
in  the  morning.'  It  was  this  which  had  warmed  old 
Lord  Clonfert's  heart  to  the  man. 

His  visit  to  Sir  Gerald  marked  the  beginning  of  a 
friendship  between  then.  Sir  Gerald  liked  him  from 
the  first.  He  told  stories  about  the  Geoghegan 
family  in  bygone  days  —  even  about  Sir  Gerald's 
father.  The  political  career  of  the  latter  did  not 
seem  to  interest  him.  His  recollections  of  '  the 
rebel'  were  concerned  with  shooting  -  parties  and 
fishing  expeditions. 

'Your  father,'  said  Lord  Clonfert,  'was  the  best 
man  to  throw  a  fly  I  ever  met.  He  had  a  way  of 


THE  SEETHING  POT  75 

knowing  where  a  fish  would  rise — a  regular  instinct. 
You'ld  think  he  knew  how  the  trout  felt  about  flies. 
He  was  nothing  of  a  shot,  though.  Many's  the  bird 
I've  seen  him  miss.  I  always  said  that  if  his  politics 
ever  led  to  fighting — as  they  did  in  the  end,  you 
know — there  would  be  no  lives  lost  in  the  British 
Army  through  his  bullets.  They  say  the  English 
soldiers  can't  shoot  worth  a  hang,  but  I'ld  back  the 
worst  of  them  to  have  winged  your  father  in  the  end 
if  they  started  fair.  There  would  have  been  an 
awful  waste  of  ammunition,  though.' 

No  feelings  could  be  hurt  with  talk  like  this. 
Besides,  Lord  Clonfert  took  the  warmest  interest  in 
Sir  Gerald's  new  purchases.  He  admired  the  cob, 
and  afterwards  tasted  the  wine.  Sir  Gerald,  on  his 
side,  pleased  the  old  man.  He  treated  him  with 
deference,  and  listened  without  being  bored  to  stories 
of  the  Congested  Districts  Board's  iniquities.  Before 
he  left,  the  old  gentleman  gave  Sir  Gerald  a  warm 
invitation  to  spend  a  few  days  with  him  at  Clonfert 
Castle. 

Another  visitor  was  much  less  hospitably  treated. 
Sir  Gerald  was  lounging  over  a  cigarette  and  a 
newspaper  in  the  library,  when  Jameson  announced  : 

'  Mr.  O'Neill  has  called,  sir.  Shall  I  say  you  are 
out?' 

'  Of  course  not,'  said  Sir  Gerald.  '  You  showed 
him  into  the  big  drawing-room,  I  suppose.  I'll  be 
with  him  in  a  moment.' 

'  I  did  not  show  him  in,  sir,'  said  Jameson,  adding, 


76  THE  SEETHING  POT 

as  if  in  self-defence :  '  It's  Mr.  John  O'Neill,  the 
Member  of  Parliament.' 

Now,  Mr.  Godfrey  had  suggested  that  O'Neill  had 
written  the  article  in  The  Gonnaught  News :  it  seemed 
likely  that  he  had,  at  all  events,  inspired  the  speech. 

'  Stop  a  minute.  Did  you  tell  him  I  was  at  home  ?' 
said  Sir  Gerald. 

'  No,  sir ;  I  said  I'ld  find  out.' 

'  I  don't  see  that  there  is  any  good  in  my  meeting 
him,'  said  Sir  Gerald.  '  It  would  be  most  unpleasant 
for  me.  You  had  better  just  say  you  find  I  am  out.' 

1  Quite  right,  sir,  if  you  will  allow  me  to  say  so.  I 
call  it  impudence  in  the  fellow,  coming  to  the  door  of 
the  house  at  all.' 

Afterwards  Sir  Gerald  thought  about  this  visit  and 
the  way  he  had  treated  the  Irish  leader.  He  was 
walking  round  the  shores  of  the  little  lake  that  lay 
below  his  house.  The  sunset  and  the  cooing  of  the 
wood-pigeons  among  the  trees  favoured  introspective 
and  sentimental  thought. 

'  I  wonder,'  he  said  to  himself,  '  why  the  man  came 
here.  He  must  have  known  I  could  not  be  a  friend 
of  his.' 

Then  there  came  into  his  mind  an  old  story  his 
father  had  told  him,  of  how  one  of  his  friends  had 
cut  him  in  the  street  after  he  first  became  notorious 
as  a  Nationalist.  Sir  Gerald  remembered  his  boyish 
indignation  against  this  almost  incredible  bigotry.  He 
had  not  been  able  to  understand  then  how  anyone 
who  was  an  Irishman  could  be  anything  else  than  a 


THE  SEETHING  POT  77 

Nationalist.  Now  he  appeared  to  have  learnt,  not 
only  devotion  to  the  English  Government,  but  con- 
tempt and  hatred  for  those  who  resisted  it. 

'  I  wonder  if  he  thought  I  was  a  Nationalist,  too,' 
he  said. 

He  confessed  that  O'Neill  might  have  thought  so 
— might  have  expected  the  son  of  Gerald  Geoghegan 
'  the  rebel '  to  be  on  the  side  of  nationality.  He  tried 
to  persuade  himself  that  he  was,  arguing  that  he  did 
not  object  to  O'Neill's  principles,  but  only  to  his 
methods.  It  was  no  use.  The  thought  kept  recurring 
that  his  conduct  had  been  the  same  as  that  of  his 
father's  friend,  the  man  whom  he  had  always  regarded 
as  the  very  type  of  stupid  bigotry.  It  was  almost  as  if 
he  had  shut  the  door  of  the  house  in  his  own  father's 
face.  He  grew  uneasy.  Yet  it  was  hard  to  see  how 
else  he  could  have  acted.  He  fell  back  upon  Canon 
Johnston's  philosophy.  The  whole  thing  was  in- 
evitable, since  he  was  what  he  was.  It  might  have 
been  different  if  he  had  not  been  a  great  landlord  and 
bound  to  stand  by  his  class.  Yet  he  wished  sincerely 
that  the  decision  had  not  been  forced  on  him  so  soon, 
that  John  O'Neill  had  not  called. 


CHAPTER  VII 

SIB  GEKALD  found  his  visit  to  Clonfert  Castle  most 
agreeable.  He  was  charmed  at  first  with  Lady  Clon- 
fert. She  possessed  the  faculty,  which  marks  the 
true  grande  dame,  of  making  every  guest  who  shook 
hands  with  her  feel  that  he  or  she  was  peculiarly,  even 
confidentially,  welcome  to  her  house.  During  dinner 
on  the  evening  of  his  arrival,  she  gave  Sir  Gerald  an 
account  of  the  various  industries  she  had  started 
among  her  husband's  tenants.  She  allowed  him  to 
gather  the  impression  that  his  approval  was  a  vital 
necessity  to  her.  It  was  with  a  pleasant  sense  of  his 
own  importance  that  Sir  Gerald  realized  that  his 
wearing  Clonfert  tweed  and  having  his  handkerchiefs 
embroidered  by  Clonfert '  spriggers '  would  secure  the 
success  of  his  hostess's  undertakings. 

Miss  Carew  rescued  him  from  committing  his  entire 
wardrobe  to  her  mother's  care. 

'  If  you  do  get  a  suit  of  our  tweed,'  she  said,  '  I 
advise  you  at  least  to  avoid  the  local  tailor.  Have 
you  seen  father's  latest  suit  ?  I  assure  you  two  people 
could  fit  quite  comfortably  into  the  coat.' 

'  I  find  it  very  difficult,'  said  Lady  Clonfert,  '  to  get 
78 


THE  SEETHING  POT  79 

good  tailors  to  buy  my  tweeds.  Of  course,  I  know 
you  must  take  what  your  man  offers  you  in  the  way 
of  material.  You  can't  go  to  a  fashionable  tailor  with 
a  roll  of  stuff  under  your  arm  and  ask  him  to  cut  it 
for  you.  But,  really,  the  local  tailor  is  not  so  bad 
as  Hester  makes  out.  You  must  take  into  considera- 
tion Clonfert's  figure.  It  can't  be  easy  to  make 
clothes  look  well  on  a  man  with  shoulders  like ' 

•Like  a  lamp-post,'  said  her  husband,  with  a  gentle 
smile. 

'  Patronize  the  sprigging,  anyhow,'  said  Miss  Carew. 
'  Some  of  mother's  girls  do  initials  on  handkerchiefs 
wonderfully  well.' 

'  So  they  do,'  said  Lord  Clonfert.  '  But  look  here, 
Sir  Gerald.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  a  thing  ?  No 
sooner  has  my  wife  had  the  girls  taught  embroidery, 
and  put  them  in  the  way  of  earning  a  few  shillings, 
than  that  meddling  Congested  Board  sends  a  woman 
down  to  the  national  school  to  teach  them  lace- making.' 

'  It  does  seem  rather  absurd,'  said  Sir  Gerald,  '  to 
try  and  start  two  industries  in  the  same  place.  I  sup- 
pose, Lady  Clonfert,  that  your  work  does  a  great  deal 
of  good — makes  the  people  more  comfortable,  I  mean  ?' 

Lord  Clonfert  and  his  daughter  exchanged  a  smile. 
There  was  evidently  an  understanding  between  them 
about  the  amount  of  comfort  produced  by  Lady 
Clonfert's  energy. 

'  Of  course,'  said  the  lady  herself.  '  I  hope  by 
degrees  to  teach  them  habits  of  industry  and  self- 
reliance.'  She  spoke  as  if  she  were  quoting  some- 


80  THE  SEETHING  POT 

thing.  '  At  present  they  are  deplorably  indolent ; 
and  as  for  the  state  of  the  houses,  they  are  simply 
shocking.  I  wish  I  could  import  some  Englishwomen 
for  a  few  months  just  to  show  them  what  cleanness 
means.' 

'  Mother  would  like  to  turn  us  all  into  English- 
women,' said  Hester.  '  I  hope,  Sir  Gerald,  that  you 
are  Irish  enough  to  like  a  little  dirt.' 

'  Do  you  know,'  went  on  Lady  Clonfert  without 
noticing  the  interruption,  '  I  was  trying  to  explain  to 
a  woman  the  other  day  that  she  ought  sometimes  to 
wash  her  children's  faces,  and  what  do  you  think  she 
said  to  me  ?  "  Saving  your  ladyship's  presence,  so 
long  as  they  are  clean  enough  to  be  healthy  and  dirty 
enough  to  be  happy,  and  don't  be  cutting  and  burning 
themselves,  I'll  rest  content."' 

'  I'm  afraid  I  rather  sympathize  with  her,'  said  Sir 
Gerald. 

'  Well  done !'  laughed  Hester.  '  We'll  make  an 
Irishman  of  you  yet.  Fancy  the  folly  of  spending 
the  day  in  trying  to  keep  children's  faces  clean  !' 

'  I  have  had  three  children,'  said  Lady  Clonfert, 
'and  I  used  to  have  their  faces  regularly  scrubbed.' 

1  Indeed  you  did,  mother ;  I  remember  it.' 

'  Scrubbed,'  repeated  Lady  Clonfert  with  emphasis, 
'as  long  as  they  were  under  my  control.' 

'  Which  is  as  much  as  to  say  that  they  have  been 
dirty  ever  since,'  said  Hester.  '  Father,  tell  me :  is 
my  face  absolutely  black,  or  only  grimy  ?' 

After  dinner  Lord  Clonfert  entertained  his  guest, 


THE  SEETHING  POT  81 

with  a  long  tale  about  a  pier  which  the  Congested 
Districts  Board  had  recently  built  in  the  neighbour- 
hood with  a  view  to  encouraging  sea-fishing.  It 
appeared  that  the  Board's  engineer  had  only  succeeded 
in  erecting  a  monument  to  his  own  incapacity.  The 
pier  could  not  be  reached  from  the  land  except  by 
crossing  a  sort  of  salt-water  morass,  a  journey  dreaded 
under  the  most  favourable  circumstances  by  the  local 
donkeys.  From  the  sea  it  was  only  accessible  at  the 
top  of  a  high  tide,  and  not  then  unless  the  wind  was 
from  the  east. 

'  And,  you  know,'  said  Lord  Clonfert,  '  that  on  this 
coast  the  wind  is  from  the  west  nine  days  out  of  ten, 
and  on  the  tenth  day  there  is  no  wind  at  all.' 

'  By  the  way,'  he  went  on  after  a  pause,  '  what 
would  you  like  to  do  with  yourself  while  you  are  here  ? 
I  can  give  you  a  day's  fishing  if  you  like,  but  I 
fancy  your  own  is  better.  Do  you  care  for  sailing  ? 
We  might  go  out  on  the  bay  in  my  little  boat,  and 
take  our  luncheon  with  us.  Hester  would  pilot  us.  She 
knows  the  rocks  as  well  as  any  man  about  the  place.' 

Sir  Gerald  thought  the  plan  sounded  delightful. 

'We'll  go  up  to  the  drawing-room,  then,  and  ask 
Hester.  Unless  you  will  take  something  more  to 
drink.  No  ?  Well,  I'll  show  the  way.' 

Hester  Carew  used  to  say  that  the  bay,  at  the  end 
of  which  Clogher  stood,  was  too  beautiful  to  have  any 
attractions  for  the  British  tourist.  There  was  some 
truth  in  her  remark,  for  the  taste  of  the  tourist  has 
been  educated  to  appreciate  a  certain  kind  of  natural 

6 


82  THE  SEETHING  POT 

beauty.  Bold  cliffs,  rugged  mountains,  narrow  gorges, 
waterfalls,  and  well-wooded  valleys  come  within  his 
definition  of  the  picturesque.  Clogher  Bay  offers 
none  of  these.  The  mountains  on  its  shores  brood 
rather  than  tower  above  it.  There  is  no  sugges- 
tion of  the  fiord  about  its  broad  stretch  of  sunlit  or 
mist-shadowed  waters.  The  tides  flow  gray  over  long 
flat  reaches  of  muddy  sand.  Hundreds  of  low  green 
islands  are  dotted  over  the  water,  each  with  its  bluff 
feeing  the  Atlantic  to  the  west,  and  grass  sloping  east- 
wards down  to  the  verge  of  the  sea.  Among  them 
Lord  Clonfert's  little  boat  threaded  her  way,  with 
Hester  steering  her.  Sometimes  she  beat  up  a  narrow 
passage  between  two  of  them ;  sometimes  she  ran 
free  along  an  oily  tideway,  or  drifted  smoothly  over 
shallows  where  the  long  cords  of  weed  brushed  caress- 
ingly against  her  sides.  Once  Hester  took  them 
beneath  the  clay  bluff  and  great  boulders  of  one  of 
the  outermost  fringe  of  islands.  The  broad  swell 
lifted  and  swayed  the  boat  gently.  A  silence  fell  upon 
them,  a  kind  of  awe.  Westward  stretched  the  great 
ocean,  shoreless  to  the  icy  coast  of  Newfoundland.  It 
seemed  no  hard  thing  to  believe  that  beyond  them, 
hidden  in  the  glory  of  the  sunset,  there  might  lie 
the  Tir-na-nogue,  the  land  of  immortality,  which 
St.  Brendan  sailed  to  look  for,  and  doubtless  found. 

The  breeze  was  off  shore,  and  the  water  rippled  out 
to  them  across  the  great  ocean  swell.  Hester  looked 
up  suddenly,  and  said,  more  to  herself  than  to  her 
father  or  Sir  Gerald : 


THE  SEETHING  POT  83 

'  I  should  like  to  let  the  sheet  go  now,  and  run  on 
into  the  West,  sail  into  the  sunset  and  the  islands  of 
the  blessed.' 

Sir  Gerald  understood  her  feeling  sufficiently  not 
to  speak  in  reply.  Their  eyes  met,  and  she  knew  that 
he  also  acknowledged  the  power  of  the  great  romance, 
the  brooding  enchantment  which  has  made  the  Irish 
of  all  races  the  least  practical,  a  failure,  as  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  reckons  failure  or  success,  everlastingly  irre- 
sponsive to  the  sanest  schemes  for  its  improvement. 

Once,  quite  suddenly,  rounding  a  long  point,  they 
came  upon  an  island  home.  A  low  thatched  cabin 
stood  half  on  the  coarse  grass,  half  on  the  stony 
beach.  Behind  it  a  man  leaned  on  his  spade  in  the 
middle  of  a  patH  of  ground  dug  into  potato  ridges. 
Beyond  him  a  woman,  barefooted,  and  bent  with  the 
weight  of  a  basket  on  her  back,  walked  on  the  outer- 
most verge  of  the  bank  which  sloped  eastwards  towards 
the  cabin,  and  shouted  encouragement  to  three  cows 
straggling  homewards  beneath  her  along  the  beach. 
Once  they  passed  close  by  a  crowd  of  girls  on  a  rock, 
left  bare  by  the  low  spring- tide.  Some  were  ankle- 
deep  among  the  pools,  some  poised  on  stones  hidden 
by  the  seaweed.  Each  carried  a  tin  pail  to  fill  with 
small  shellfish. 

'They  are  all  island  girls,"  said  Hester.  'Their 
whelks  are  shipped  to  Glasgow.' 

Sir  Gerald  dwelt  with  a  certain  sad  pleasure  on  the 
contrast  between  the  gathering  and  the  final  market- 
ing of  the  fish.  The  artisan's  wife,  bargaining  for  a 

6—2 


54  THE  SEETHING  POT 

*  relish'  at  a  barrow  in  some  dusty  city  highway, 
seemed  a  whole  world  apart  from  the  group  of  girls 
before  his  eyes,  who  stooped  among  the  rocks  and 
dabbled  feet  and  hands  in  the  salt  water.  In  the 
evening  they  passed  them  again.  This  time  the  girls 
were  rowing  homewards.  The  tide  flowed  with  them 
Ske  a  river,  and  they  dipped  their  oars  in  time  to  the 
gong  they  sang. 

Once  in  a  narrow  waterway  they  watched  two  boys 
land  on  the  beach  opposite  their  home.  They  chased 
Cowards  the  sea  a  mingled  flock  of  geese  and  ducks. 
The  birds,  pushed,  as  it  were,  from  the  land  by  the 
shouting  boys,  flew  clamorously  over  the  strait,  and 
dne  by  one  struck  the  water  with  their  breasts,  splash- 
ing it  right  and  left,  and  shooting  along  the  surface 
with  the  impetus  of  their  flight.  The  boys  followed 
in  their  crazy  boat,  herding  the  whole  flock  to  the 
door  of  the  opposite  cottage. 

'These  people,'  said  Sir  Gerald,  as  they  drifted 
slowly  past,  '  must  lead  the  best  of  all  lives  and  the 
happiest.' 

'  Some  of  them,'  said  Lord  Clonfert,  '  are  your 
tenants,  and  some,  I'm  sorry  to  say,  are  mine.  When 
'A  comes  to  paying  their  rents,  they  don't  describe  their 
homes  as  earthly  paradises.' 

'  Once,'  said  Hester,  '  I  used  to  visit  a  girl  who  lived 
in  the  cottage  we  have  just  passed.  She  was  in  the 
Workhouse  infirmary.  I  knew  she  was  dying.  Every- 
one knew  it  except  herself.  It  was  wonderful  to  hear 
ier  talk  about  her  home.  She  had  no  education,  and 


THE  SEETHING  POT  85 

I  don't  suppose  she  could  have  analyzed  her  owe 
feelings ;  but  her  whole  soul  was  wrapped  up  in  9 
desire  to  be  back  with  her  people  and  living  their  life 
among  the  islands.1 

The  fourth  day  of  their  sailing  was  a  holiday. 
They  found  themselves  among  a  fleet  of  boats  making 
for  the  landing-place  opposite  the  chapel  on  the  main- 
land. Large  black  hookers,  with  queer  curved  bows* 
that  reached  upwards  out  of  the  water,  pushed  their 
way  solemnly  shorewards.  Among  them  went  little 
boats,  each  with  a  single  sail,  manned  by  a  steersman, 
and  perhaps  a  boy,  with  a  couple  of  women  sitting  by 
the  mast.  The  people  shouted  greetings  to  each  other 
across  the  water.  Sir  Gerald  asked  what  they  were 
saying. 

'I  only  know  a  few  words  of  Irish,'  said  Hester,, 
'but  I  can  translate  that  much  for  you.  Listen-! 
That  man  shouted,  "  God  bless  you  !"  and  the  womaa 
there  answered  him,  "  The  blessing  of  God  and  Mary 
on  yourself !"  Almost  every  Irish  phrase  of  greeting 
and  parting  has  God's  name  in  it.  If  the  sun  shine% 
it  is  a  fine  day,  "thank  God !"  If  everything  is  being 
ruined  by  the  rain,  it  is  "  the  weather  the  Lord  i? 
pleased  to  send  us."  We  are  ashamed  to  talk  to  eack 
other  in  that  way.  If  we  believe  in  God,  we  don't 
want  anyone  to  find  it  out.  Is  it  not  an  amazing 
piece  of  arrogance  for  anyone  to  start  trying  to  convert 
these  people  ?' 

'  Now,  Hester,'  said  Lord  Clonfert,  '  don't  start 
talking  theology.  I'm  always  afraid  of  my  life,'  he 


86  THE  SEETHING  POT 

added  to  Sir  Gerald,  with  a  laugh,  '  that  Hester  will 
turn  Roman  Catholic  and  try  to  convert  me.' 

'  Nonsense  !'  said  Hester.  '  I  admire  the  religion 
which  makes  our  people  what  they  a¥e,  but  it  can't  be 
my  religion.' 

:  '  Now,  why,'  said  Sir  Gerald,  'do  you  say  can't? 
I  suppose  you  can  turn  Roman  Catholic  if  you  like. 
I  mean  religion  is  a  matter  of  choice,  isn't  it  ?' 

'  I  don't  think  so.  I  don't  want  to  be  a  Roman 
Catholic,  but  even  if  I  did  I  couldn't.  I  don't  know 
how  it  is  in  other  countries,  but  here  you  are  born 
one  thing  or  the  other,  Protestant  or  Roman  Catholic, 
just  as  you  are  born  a  boy  or  a  girl.  You  can't 
change.  I  never  heard  of  anyone  in  Ireland  changing 
his  religion.  Did  you,  father  ?' 

'Well,  no,'  said  Lord  Clonfert — 'at  least,  no  one 
who  had  any  religion  to  change.  There  are  always  a 
few  "  soupers,"  as  they  call  them,  knocking  about 
but  I  don't  count  them.' 

'  I  don't  think,'  said  Sir  Gerald, '  even  if  I  swallowed 
the  whole  Roman  system,  Infallibility  and  all,  I  should 
be  any  nearer  being  able  to  say,  "  A  fine  day,  thank 
God  !"  to  a  man  I  met  casually  on  the  road.1 

'  That's  curious,'  said  Lord  Clonfert.  '  I've  no 
difficulty  about  that  at  all.  I  couldn't  say  it  to  you, 
of  course,  but  if  I  see  a  man  digging  potatoes  in  a 
field,  it  is  quite  natural  to  me  to  say  to  him,  "  God 
bless  your  work  !"  ' 

1  That's  just  one  of  the  things  about  you,  father, 
which  shows  that  you  are  a  true  Irishman.  I'm 


THE  SEETHING  POT  87 

afraid  I  have  a  lot  of  mother's  Englishness  in  me.  I 
often  feel  "  God  bless  the  work  !"  but  I  never  can  get 
my  lips  round  saying  it.' 

During  these  days  of  sailing  on  the  bay  the  three 
had  many  such  conversations.  The  close  companion- 
ship of  the  little  boat  and  the  strangeness  of  their 
surroundings  dissolved  the  conventional  restraints 
which  make  ultimate  talk  impossible  except  for  old 
friends.  Sometimes  they  had  slow  wandering  dis- 
cussions lasting  for  an  hour  or  more.  Sometimes 
they  sat  in  silence,  the  men  smoking  while  Hester 
steered.  Sir  Gerald  found  a  steadily  increasing 
pleasure  in  watching  her.  He  had  found  a  way  of 
stretching  himself  on  the  floor  boards  of  the  boat, 
leaning  against  the  mast.  He  could  look  steadily  at 
Hester  without  her  knowing  that  he  watched  her. 
He  became  familiar  with  the  grip  of  her  hand  on  the 
tiller,  and  the  sway  of  her  body  as  she  loosened  or 
pulled  in  the  sheet.  Generally  she  seemed  un- 
conscious of  his  gaze.  When  by  chance  she  caught 
his  eyes  fixed  on  her,  she  spoke  to  him,  as  if  she 
counted  his  gaze  a  reproach  for  her  silence. 

Once  they  talked  about  Lady  Clonfert's  approach- 
ing exhibition  of  industries.  It  was  to  put  an  end  to 
the  sailing,  even  if  the  weather  held  good.  They 
had  successfully  avoided  the  last  of  the  preliminary 
committee  meetings,  and  Sir  Gerald  boasted  that  he 
had  bought  their  freedom  at  the  price  of  his  name 
as  a  patron  and  the  promise  of  a  prize  for  knitted 
socks. 


88  THE  SEETHING  POT 

'  I  wish  you  would  offer  ten  more  prizes,'  said  Lord 
Clonfert,  *  and  let  us  escape  the  thing  itself.' 

'You're  very  ungrateful,  father,'  said  Hester. 
'  Think  of  the  time  you'ld  be  having  to-day,  taking 
notes  of  all  the  valuable  suggestions  the  members  of 
the  committee  made.' 

'  I  know,'  said  Lord  Clonfert — '  I  know  very  well 
what  I've  escaped.  Last  time  I  tried  to  make  the 
dear  people  see  that  there  was  something  a  little 
comic  in  offering  a  prize  for  the  best  hand -sewn 
night-dress,  and  then  confining  the  competition  to 
farmers  of  less  than  £30  valuation.  Nobody  saw  my 
point,  and  when  I  explained  that  very  few  farmers 
of  any  valuation  could  sew  even  a  button  on  their 
trousers,  much  less  make  a  night-dress,  your  mother 
frowned  at  me,  and  that  wretched  Mr.  Ford  from 
Kilsallagh  said  that  it  would  be  ridiculous  to  offer  a 
prize  for  sewing  buttons  on  trousers.  I  gave  it  up 
after  that,  seeing  that  things  were  getting  a  little 
mixed.' 

'  Doesn't  it  do  any  good  ?'  asked  Sir  Gerald. 

*  I  don't  know,'  said  Lord  Clonfert.  '  Personally,  I 
regard  all  these  efforts  to  improve  people  as  most 
insulting  to  them  and  very  boring  to  us.  I  don't  see 
why  they  should  not  take  the  initiative  for  a  change, 
and  try  to  improve  us.  It  would  be  a  great  deal 
more  amusing.  You  and  I,  Sir  Gerald,  might  find 
ourselves  competing  for  a  prize  offered  to  the  gentle- 
man who  gave  least  trouble  to  his  domestic  servants. 
I  suppose  that  is  the  sort  of  prize  they  would  offer/ 


THE  SEETHING  POT  89 

'  What  do  you  say,  Miss  Carew  ?  Are  you  in 
sympathy  with  the  exhibition  ?' 

'  I've  had  rather  unfortunate  experiences  of  com- 
mittee meetings,  too,'  said  Hester.  '  At  the  last  one 
there  was  an  animated  discussion  about  luncheon. 
There  are  to  be  two  tents — one  for  the  gentry,  in 
which  you  are  charged  three  shillings ;  the  other  for 
the  common  people,  in  which  you  are  fed  for  one 
shilling.  The  three-shilling  lunchers  are  to  have  the 
privilege  of  ordering  champagne  or  claret  if  they  like. 
The  question  arose  as  to  whether  the  others  were  to 
be  allowed  a  bottle  of  porter,  or  were  to  be  strictly 
confined  to  lemonade.' 

'  As  well  as  I  recollect,'  said  Lord  Clonfert,  '  I 
voted  for  the  porter.  Your  mother  was  on  the  side 
of  the  lemonade.' 

'  Yes,'  said  Hester.  '  But  it  was  not  so  much  the 
question  itself,  as  the  way  it  was  discussed,  that 
irritated  me.' 

'  It  irritated  more  than  you,  Hester.  Did  you 
notice  the  way  Mrs.  Courtenay  looked  at  me  when 
I  said  that  no  one  could  get  riotously  drunk  on  a 
bottle  of  porter  ?  My  way  of  discussing  the  question 
irritated  her.' 

'  I  don't  see,'  said  Hester,  '  why  it  should  be  taken 
for  granted  that  every  man  who  can't  pay  three 
shillings  for  his  luncheon  is  bound  to  get  drunk  if 
he  has  the  chance.' 

'He  generally  does,  though,'  said  Lord  Clonfert. 
'  I'm  not  blaming  him ;  I'm  only  stating  a  fact.' 


90  THE  SEETHING  POT 

'  Nonsense,  father  !  That's  just  what  that  horrid 
Mrs.  Courtenay  seemed  to  think.  She  would  have 
carried  her  point,  too,  only  that  Miss  Hill  reminded 
the  committee  that,  as  they  were  running  the  show 
to  make  themselves  popular,  there  was  no  use  being 
offensive  about  drinks.' 

'Very  sensible  of  Miss  Hill,'  said  Lord  Clonfert. 
'  It's  much  better  to  be  cheered  by  a  drunken  man 
than  scowled  at  by  a  sober  one.' 

'It  was  utterly  degrading,'  said  Hester,  her  face 
flaming.  *  If  these  grand  ladies ' 

'  I  wish  Mrs.  Courtenay  and  Miss  Hill  could  hear 
you,'  said  her  father.  '  How  pleased  they  would  be 
at  being  called  "  grand  ladies  "  !' 

'  Well,  they  think  themselves  grand  enough,  any- 
how. If  they  are  giving  prizes  and  patronizing  the 
farmers'  wives  simply  to  make  themselves  popular, 
the  whole  thing  is  a  fraud,  just  as  John  O'Neill  said 
it  was.1 

'  What  did  John  O'Neill  say  about  it  ?'  asked  Sir 
Gerald,  with  interest. 

'  I  don't  remember  his  exact  words,  but  he  advised 
the  people  not  to  allow  themselves  to  be  made  into 
toys  for  great  ladies  to  play  with  when  they  come 
over  from  London  for  a  holiday.  I  think  he  was 
perfectly  right.' 

Sir  Gerald  suddenly  realized  that  Hester  was 
beautiful.  He  had  watched  her  face  in  repose,  and 
found  it  full  of  romantic  possibilities.  He  had  seen 
flashes  of  intelligence  light  it  up,  and  shadows  of 


THE  SEETHING  POT  91 

puzzled  thought  pass  over  it.  Now  he  saw  it  on 
fire  with  indignation.  There  was  a  flush  of  crimson 
on  her  cheek,  and  a  gleam — almost  fierce — in  her 
eyes.  He  wished  to  keep  to  the  subject  which  made 
her  angry  and  beautiful. 

'Do  you  know,'  he  said,  'that  John  O'Neill  called 
and  left  his  card  on  me  just  before  I  came  here  ?' 

1  He's  got  the  cheek  of  the  Old  Gentleman  himself,' 
said  Lord  Clonfert. 

*  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  return  his  call.1 

'  God  bless  my  soul !  Don't  do  that/  said  Lord 
Clonfert,  startled  out  of  his  usual  good-humour ;  '  you 
can't  do  that.  There  isn't  a  gentleman  in  the  county 
but  would  cut  you  if  you  were  a  friend  of  John 
O'Neill's.  Of  course  you  don't  understand,  but  I 
can  remember  when  they  were  shooting  us  like  par- 
tridges. Poor  old  Thompson,  the  Sub-sheriff,  was 
shot  dead,  and  lots  more.  I  was  shot  at  myself.  You 
can't  go  and  call  on  a  man  who  would  pot  you  from 
behind  a  hedge." 

'  That's  all  years  and  years  ago,'  said  Hester. 
'  Nobody  is  shot  at  now.' 

'  No  thanks  to  John  O'Neill  if  they're  not,'  said 
Lord  Clonfert.  '  He's  one  of  the  same  infernal  gang. 
Don't  talk  nonsense,  Hester,  on  serious  subjects.  You 
were  only  a  child  in  those  days.  Ask  your  mother 
about  it.  1  never  went  out  after  dark  but  she  spent 
her  time  on  her  knees  praying  for  my  life  till  I  came 
home  again.  I  remember  when  a  man  daren't  sit  in 
a  room  with  a  lighted  lamp  and  an  open  window.' 


92  THE  SEETHING  POT 

Sir  Gerald  was  amazed.  This  was  a  wholly  new 
light  on  Irish  politics.  Afterwards,  when  he  thought 
over  Lord  Clonfert's  words,  the  recollection  of  his  own 
indignation  at  the  newspaper  article  helped  him  to 
understand  the  feelings  of  the  men  who  had  lived 
through  the  '  bad  times '  of  the  land  agitation.  He 
admitted  that  they  could  scarcely  feel  otherwise  than 
they  did.  Yet  he  was  conscious  of  a  certain  want  of 
nobility  in  Lord  Clonfert's  attitude.  A  gospel  of 
mere  hatred  does  not  appeal  to  the  young  and 
imaginative  mind,  and  it  seemed  that  for  Lord  Clon- 
fert  politics  were  summed  up  in  one  simple  hatred. 
He  wearied  himself  with  thinking  round  and  round 
the  subject.  The  more  he  thought,  the  more  im- 
possible it  seemed  to  find  any  clear  vantage-ground 
on  which  to  stand,  from  which  to  press  forward  to 
useful  action.  Once  more  he  was  forced  back  upon 
the  fatalism  of  his  last  decision.  He  was  a  gentleman 
and  the  representative  of  a  class.  He  had  no  possible 
duty  except  to  fight  as  well  as  he  could  the  battle  of 
his  side,  or  else  to  let  things  slip  along  as  they  might 
without  his  interference. 

Yet  his  old  dream  of  loving  Ireland  lingered  still  at 
the  back  of  his  resolution.  Kathaleen  ny-Houlahan 
haunted  him,  the  beautiful  figure  of  Ireland ;  but  now 
he  saw  her  face,  and  it  was  the  face  of  Hester  Carew. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  day  of  the  exhibition  was  fortunately  fine,  and 
the  lawn  in  front  of  Clonfert  Castle  looked  gay,  dotted 
over  with  white  tents  arranged  for  the  accommodation 
of  the  exhibits.  At  quite  an  early  hour  the  scene 
became  animated.  Members  of  the  committee,  male 
and  female,  adorned  themselves  with  large  green 
badges,  and  fussed  with  increasing  velocity  from  tent 
to  tent.  Two  very  great  ladies  from  a  remote  corner 
of  the  county  arrived  by  an  early  train,  and  drove  out 
laden  with  bales  ®f  tweed  and  stockings  made  by  their 
husbands'  tenants.  Their  costumes  were  devised 
specially  for  the  occasion,  and  were  intended  to 
advertise  the  suitability  of  home-made  materials  for 
ladies'  wear.  The  inferior  members  of  the  local 
committee  received  them  with  joyful  deference,  ad- 
miring, while  they  wondered  at,  the  daring  yellow 
of  one  skirt  or  the  luxuriant  flounces  of  crochet 
which  adorned  the  other.  Sharp-faced  young  women, 
representing  convents  which  traded  in  lace  and  linen, 
struggled  with  each  other,  and  even  irreverently 
jostled  the  great  ladies  in  the  effort  to  secure  the 
best  positions  for  exhibiting  their  goods.  Amateur 

93 


94  THE  SEETHING  POT 

gardeners  unpacked  sodden-looking  hampers  of  flowers 
and  vegetables  in  inconvenient  places.  They  inquired, 
at  first  hopefully,  afterwards  with  a  certain  querulous- 
ness,  for  water  to  fill  their  exhibition  glasses.  After 
a  time  they  gathered  in  little  groups  and  anathema- 
tized the  committee's  arrangements.  Bewildered 
country-women,  whose  fowls  had  escaped  from  con- 
trol, pursued  them  with  cries  round,  and  even 
tirftmgh,  the  tenta.  Small  girls,  bringing  loaves  of 
home-baked  bread  and  rolls  of  butter,  clamoured 
persistead^  to  have  them  stalled  in  quite  impossible 
places. 

Amid  the  general  confusion,  Lady  Clonfert  displayed 
the  powers  of  organization  and  prompt  action  which 
have  made  her  race  commercially  great.  She  had 
arrayed  herself  in  a  dress  of  the  purple  flannel  which 
Mayo  country-women  use  for  petticoats.  The  colour 
rendered  her  a  conspicuous  mark  for  everyone  with  a 
grievance  or  a  difficulty.  Agitated  members  of  the 
committee  appealed  to  her  at  every  corner.  She 
soothed  them  into  comparative  sanity  without  show- 
ing a  sign  of  irritation.  Exhibitors,  whom  anger 
rendered  uncivil,  attributed  their  failure  to  find  a 
place  for  their  goods  to  her  personal  incapacity.  She 
pointed  out  to  them  that  their  difficulties  rose  from 
want  of  attention  to  the  printed  directions  in  their 
hands,  and  succeeded  in  leaving  them  smiling  and 
content.  She  gave  over  to  Hester  the  task  of  pacify- 
ing a  Countess  whom  an  injudicious  member  of  the 
committee  had  forbidden  to  hang  a  rainbow  of  shoot- 


THE  SEETHING  POT  95 

ing  stockings  round  the  tent  devoted  to  the  shilling 
lunchers. 

Lord  Clonfert  strolled  through  the  crowd  in  perfect 
good-humour.  He  congratulated  a  country-woman 
on  the  activity  of  her  chickens  in  a  way  which  brought 
smiles  and  blessings  to  her  lips,  and  something  like 
tears  of  irritated  vexation  to  the  eyes  of  a  young 
woman  who  was  trying  to  protect  some  ecclesiastical 
lace  from  their  flutterings.  He  assured  an  amateur 
gardener  that  his  carnations  were  absolutely  certain 
to  take  a  prize,  and  apologized  amiably  when  he  dis- 
covered that  this  particular  man  was  only  exhibiting 
vegetables.  The  people  who  asked  him  where  they 
were  to  bestow  their  goods,  he  directed  with  reassur- 
ing promptitude  to  the  tent  which  happened  at  the 
moment  to  be  furthest  off.  In  this  way  he  avoided 
the  worry  of  trying  to  find  out  the  right  place,  and 
generally  succeeded  in  escaping  the  subsequent  re- 
proaches of  his  victims. 

Sir  Gerald,  who  knew  nothing  of  the  arrangements 
of  the  show,  and  was  a  stranger  to  almost  everyone 
there,  enjoyed  himself  quietly;  smoking  a  series  of 
cigars  and  watching  Hester  deal  with  the  angry 
Countess.  Early  in  the  afternoon  he  was  captured  by 
Lady  Clonfert,  and  told  to  secure  lunch  for  a  very 
great  man  who  had  just  arrived  with  his  wife.  The 
Right  Honourable  George  Chesney  was  a  Cabinet 
Minister,  and  was  popularly  supposed  to  govern 
Ireland.  In  reality,  his  position  was  like  that  of  a 
football  in  a  tightly-packed  scrimmage.  Vigorous 


96  THE  SEETHING  POT 

forwards  impelled  him,  more  by  kicking  than  persua- 
sion, in  opposite  directions.  The  equilibrium  which 
might  have  resulted  was  continually  being  interfered 
with  by  adroit  players,  who  shoved  him  sideways  or 
heeled  him  out  backwards.  He  was  occasionally 
rushed  into  peculiarly  uncomfortable  positions  when 
someone  succeeded  in  what  is  technically  known 
among  football-players  as  '  screwing  the  scrimmage.' 
He  was  never  without  the  consciousness  that  alert 
half-backs  were  lurking  in  Westminster,  eager  for  a 
chance  of  picking  him  up  and  whisking  him  away. 
It  speaks  for  the  toughness  of  the  leather  in  which  he 
was  encased  that  the  Right  Honourable  Mr.  Chesney 
not  only  enjoyed  life,  but  continued  fully  distended 
with  that  wind  which  is  the  prime  necessity  of  poli- 
ticians who  make  many  speeches. 

Lady  Clonfert  had  captured  him  for  her  show  by 
means  of  a  skilfully  planted  series  of  telegrams.  He 
had  been  enjoying  an  entirely  unofficial  motor  tour 
through  Connemara,  when  she  got  knowledge  of  his 
whereabouts.  He  succumbed  with  a  comparatively 
good  grace  to  the  fourth  message  which  he  found 
awaiting  him  at  an  hotel,  and  arrived  at  Clonfert 
Castle  primed  with  a  speech.  His  wife,  who,  fortu- 
nately, was  wealthy,  did  her  duty  by  the  exhibits. 
She  supplied  her  husband  with  an  immense  number 
of  stockings,  and  secured  for  herself  several  enormous 
flounces  of  crochet  and  a  quantity  of  lace,  which  some 
pious  nuns  had  designed  for  a  Bishop's  vestments. 
The  great  man  himself  asked  amiably  intelligent 


THE  SEETHING  POT  97 

questions  on  a  variety  of  industrial  topics,  and  evaded 
the  different  attempts  to  induce  him  to  promise 
Government  grants  for  starting  factories. 

Sir  Gerald  conducted  him  through  the  show  to  the 
luncheon  tent.  His  duty  as  cicerone  was  easier  thai* 
he  expected.  It  was  his  first  experience  of  intercourse 
with  a  prominent  politician,  and  he  was  surprised  to 
find  himself  chatting  naturally  to  a  man  whose  words 
and  actions  formed  the  raw  material  for  the  leading 
articles  of  the  daily  papers.  Mr.  Chesney  possessed 
an  apparently  inexhaustible  fund  of  information  oa 
every  subject  except  politics.  After  luncheon  Lady 
Clonfert  interrupted  him  in  the  middle  of  a  dis.- 
sertation  on  the  probable  future  of  a  newly-invented 
kind  of  golf-ball.  He  braced  himself  for  an  effort 
as  his  hostess  led  him  to  a  tent  placarded  '  Cafe 
Chantant.' 

The  function  of  this  pavilion  was  entirely  un- 
connected with  coffee,  or,  indeed,  with  any  other 
beverage,  but  the  second  half  of  its  title  was  justified 
by  a  series  of  short  concerts  held  in  it  during  the 
afternoon  and  evening.  A  large  audience  had  collected 
in  expectation  of  a  speech  from  Mr.  Chesney.  The 
two  very  great  ladies  occupied  chairs  in  the  front 
Round  and  behind  them  were  grouped  minor  dames 
with  such  of  their  husbands  and  sons  as  they  had 
succeeded  in  dragging  with  them  to  the  show. 
Behind  these,  on  forms,  closely  packed,  were  the 
local  clergy  with  their  wives,  doctors,  solicitors,  and 
some  of  the  leading  shopkeepers  from  Clogher.  At 

7 


98  THE  SEETHING  POT 

the  back  of  all  were  a  few  farmers.  Here  and  there 
were  newspaper  reporters.  Mr.  Godfrey  was  acting 
as  master  of  the  ceremonies.  He  made  an  effort  to 
plant  Sir  Gerald  on  a  still  vacant  chair  in  the  front 
row,  but  the  latter  clung  to  a  position  in  a  corner  near 
the  entrance  in  spite  of  him,  and  was  rewarded  for  his 
humility  by  finding  himself  standing  next  to  Desmond 
O'Hara.  They  had  no  time  for  more  than  a  mutual 
recognition  before  Lord  Clonfert  mounted  the  platform 
and  introduced  the  Right  Honourable  orator  to  the 
audience. 

A  tent  is  a  bad  place  for  enthusiastic  applause. 
The  men  stamped  their  feet  quite  noiselessly  on  the 
damp  grass,  and  the  clapping  of  gloved  hands  died 
away  in  a  faint  flutter  against  the  canvas.  Under 
the  circumstances,  it  was  nice  of  Mr.  Chesney  to 
express  himself  pleased  with  the  warmth  of  his 
reception.  He  assured  his  audience,  with  flattering 
earnestness,  that  he  felt  himself  to  be  standing  in 
the  midst  of  those  who  were  really  working  for  the 
good  of  Ireland.  What  the  country  wanted  was 
less  politics  and  more  industry.  It  was  his  misfor- 
tune to  be  engaged  in  politics ;  it  was  the  privi- 
lege of  his  audience  to  be  furthering  the  cause  of 
industry. 

At  this  point  Mr.  Godfrey  made  a  vigorous  but 
only  partially  successful  effort  to  start  a  cheer. 
Mr.  Chesney  bowed  in  acknowledgment  of  the  inten- 
tion, and  proceeded. 

The  eminence  of  English  statesmen — perhaps  of 


THE  SEETHING  POT  99 

statesmen  in  all  popularly  -  governed  countries  — 
appears  to  depend  very  much  on  their  capacity  for 
giving  utterance  to  platitudes  in  such  a  way  as  to 
persuade  their  listeners  that  they  are  hearing  new 
and  profound  truths.  Mr.  Chesney  was  a  master  of 
this  useful  art.  He  was  able  also  to  add  puerilities 
to  his  platitudes  with  an  air  of  serious  wisdom  which 
carried  his  audience  with  him.  In  Lady  Clonfert's 
tent  he  was  at  his  very  best.  No  one  recognised  his 
general  panegyric  of  industry  as  a  paraphrase  of 
Dr.  Watts's  famous  verses  about  the  little  busy  bee. 
Descending  to  the  particular  case  of  Ireland,  he 
dwelt  at  considerable  length  on  the  advantages  which 
would  accrue  to  the  country  if  the  people  would  take 
to  making  useful  articles  for  which  a  market  could  be 
found  in  England.  Great  Britain,  he  assured  his 
audience,  was  a  generous  pay-mistress  to  those  who 
ministered  to  her  wants. 

Sir  Gerald  recollected  the  girls  who  picked  whelks. 
They  got,  he  had  been  told,  as  much  as  eightpence  a 
stone  for  what  they  collected.  When  he  picked  up 
the  thread  of  Mr.  Chesney's  discourse  again,  he  found 
himself  listening  to  an  eloquent  prophecy  of  a  wave 
of  prosperity  for  Ireland  when  the  people  learned  to 
make  toy  boats  and  children's  dolls.  An  immense 
amount  of  money,  it  appeared,  went  every  year  to 
Germany  and  Switzerland  for  these  necessaries  of 
modern  life.  Why  should  not  all  this  money  come  to 
Ireland  ?  Mr.  Chesney  did  not  know,  nor  did  his 
audience.  The  idea  of  making  dolls  was  new  to 

7—2 


100  THE  SEETHING  POT 

them  ;  it  was  probably  quite  new  also  to  Mr.  Chesney. 
If  it  were,  lie  made  the  most  of  the  inspiration. 
estimated  the  nation's  annual  expenditure  on  dolls  at 
many  thousands  of  pounds.  He  himself,  for  family 
reasons — his  glance  indicated  Mrs.  Chesney  to  the 
audience — contributed  largely  to  this  expenditure. 
Probably  the  majority  of  those  present  did  so, 
too. 

The  ladies  in  the  front  rows  smiled  their  apprecia- 
tion. Mr.  Godfrey  inaugurated  another  round  of 
applause. 

Sir  Gerald  felt  a  touch  on  his  arm,  and  O'Hara 
whispered  to  him  : 

'  I've  had  enough  of  this  speech.  Is  there  any 
place  where  we  can  get  tea  ?' 

Sir  Gerald  slipped  after  him  from  the  tent. 

'  I  suppose  you  didn't  expect  to  see  me  down  here/ 
said  O'Hara.  'When  you  know  me  better,  you'll 
realize  that  I'm  like  a  microbe — liable  to  be  met  with 
anywhere.  At  present  I  am  a  sort  of  Biblical  devil 
wandering  through  dry  places  seeking  whom  I  may 
devour.  Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that  microbes  may 
be  little  devils  ?  I  dare  say  not.  It  never  struck  me 
till  just  this  moment,  but  there's  something  in  the 
idea.  It  would  reconcile  modern  medical  science 
with  the  New  Testament  idea  of  possession,  and 
account  for  the  herd  of  swine  which  ran  violently 
into  the  sea.  You  might  think  the  thing  out,  and, 
when  you've  nothing  particular  to  do,  write  a  letter 
about  it  to  The  Critic.''  He  paused  for  a  moment,  as 


THE  SEETHING  POT  101 

if  to  adjust  his  thoughts,  and  then  went  on:  'Did  you 
ever  hear  such  drivel  as  Chesney  was  talking  in  that 
tent  ?  Here's  a  nation  gripped  with  the  birth-pangs 
of  her  own  regeneration,  in  the  pains  of  bringing 
forth  herself — now  don't  interrupt  me  by  saying  that's 
a  bull:  I  know  it's  a  bull.  No  great  truth  can  be 
uttered  except  in  the  form  of  a  bull.  That  is  why 
bulls  are  peculiarly  Irish.  It  is  our  function  to  dis- 
cover and  utter  great  truths  for  the  salvation  of  a 
sordid  and  commercial  Empire.  But  what  was  I 
saying  when  you  looked  as  if  you  were  going  to 
interrupt  me  ?  Oh  yes !  here  we  are  —  trying  to 
give  birth  to  our  own  nationality,  and  this  man,  who 
ought  to  be  our  midwife,  talks  to  us  about  making 
dolls.' 

'  Here  is  the  place,'  said  Sir  Gerald,  laughing, '  and 
here  is  Miss  Carew.  I  must  introduce  you.  She's  a 
great  admirer  of  your  paper.' 

The  introduction  was  a  real  pleasure  to  Hester. 
She  read  and  appreciated  the  articles  which  appeared 
in  The  Critic  on  the  ancient  history  and  poetry  of 
Ireland.  Once  she  had  ventured  to  send  some  verses 
of  her  own  to  the  editor,  which  had  been  duly 
printed.  O'Hara  recollected  that  she  was  both  a 
subscriber  and  a  contributor. 

'  Why  don't  you  send  me  some  more  poetry  ?'  he 
asked.  '  The  last  was  very  good.  Young  ladies 
ought  to  write  verses  when  they  can,  instead  of 
wasting  their  time  in  making  stockings.'  He  waved 
his  hands  comprehensively  towards  the  tents  where 


102  THE  SEETHING  POT 

the  exhibits  were  piled.    'Poems  are  of  more  value 
to  the  nation  than  tweeds.' 

'  But,  Mr.  O'Hara,'  said  Hester,  '  when  you  printed 
my  poor  little  verses,  you  put  in  a  note,  signed  "  Ed.," 
saying  that  the  verses  were  very  good,  but  that  I  ought 
to  be  doing  something  useful.  Even  young  ladies,  you 
said,  had  no  right  to  be  fiddling  while  Rome  was 
burning.' 

'  Did  I  say  that  ?'  said  O'Hara.  '  What  can  I  have 
been  thinking  about,  to  be  cross  to  a  charming  young 
lady  who  wrote  verses  ?  Perhaps  it  happened  when  I 
was  recovering  from  the  influenza  last  spring.  I'll 
apologize  publicly  if  you  like  in  the  next  number. 
Anyhow,  you  must  not  take  The  Critic  too  seriously. 
It  is  an  irresponsible,  playful  sprite,  the  Ariel  of  Irish 
politics.' 

'The  first  time  I  met  you,'  said  Sir  Gerald,  'you 
told  me  to  furnish  my  house  from  top  to  bottom  with 
Irish  manufactures,  and  now  you  are  telling  Miss 
Carew  not  to  make  stockings,  and  abusing  Mr. 
Chesney  for  suggesting  an  Irish  doll-factory.' 

'If  it  gives  you  any  pleasure  to  find  me  out  in 
inconsistences,'  said  O'Hara, '  you  are  likely  to  have 
a  happy  life.  I'm  not  consistent.  There's  nothing 
which  goes  under  the  name  of  a  virtue  that  I  despise 
more  thoroughly  than  I  do  consistency.  Any  way,  I 
said  that  about  the  manufactures  in  England.  I'd 
been  breathing  a  commercial  atmosphere  for  a  fort- 
night. I'm  back  in  Ireland  now,  thank  God  !  and  can 
say  what  I  like  about  Mr.  Chesney  and  his  factories.' 


THE  SEETHING  POT  103 

Before  they  finished  their  tea,  Sir  Gerald  persuaded 
O'Hara  to  pay  him  a  visit  at  Clogher. 

'  I  suppose  I  can  give  the  public  a  holiday,'  said 
O'Hara ;  '  I'm  sure  they  deserve  one.  I'll  just  polish 
oft'  this  week's  number  to-night,  and  then  there  will 
be  no  more  Critics  for  a  fortnight.' 

Sir  Gerald  proposed  a  stroll  through  some  part  of 
the  grounds  not  invaded  by  the  show.  O'Hara  pre- 
ferred to  finish  his  round  of  the  tents;  but  Hester, 
with  misgivings  on  the  score  of  neglected  duty, 
allowed  herself  to  be  persuaded  to  go.  They  took 
a  path  through  a  plantation  to  an  open  space,  where 
the  grass,  fragrant  with  thyme,  gave  way  reluctantly 
to  the  coarse  spiked  growth  of  the  billowy  sand-hills. 
Beyond  them  lay  the  broad,  flat  beach  and  the  bay, 
stretching  away  into  a  mist  across  a  belt  of  red  light 
from  the  west.  For  awhile  neither  Hester  nor  Sir 
Gerald  spoke.  Both  felt  the  solemnity  of  the  sea  and 
its  desolation.  The  noise  and  bustle  of  the  show 
grounds,  the  babble  of  talk,  the  inane  braying  of  the 
band,  seemed  suddenly  remote  ;  but  time  was  needed 
to  adjust  the  mind  to  its  new  surroundings.  It  was 
Hester  who  spoke  first. 

'I'm  glad  Mr.  O'Hara  is  going  to  stay  with  you. 
He's  a  true  Irishman  in  spite  of  all  his  oddity.' 

'  Yes,  I'm  glad  he's  coming,'  said  Sir  Gerald;  'but 
why  did  you  say  that  about  his  being  a  true  Irish- 
man ?  Do  you  think  I  require  to  be  converted  to 
patriotism  ?' 

'  I   think,'   said  Hester — and   her   own   boldness 


THE  SEETHING  POT 

surprised  her  as  she  spoke — '  that  you  ought  to  be  an 
Irishman :  I  mean  an  Irishman  who  loves  Ireland,  not 
Hke — like  the  others,  who  only  care  for  themselves  or 
their  party.' 

'  That's  what  I  hoped  to  be,  but  you  don't  know  how 
hard  it  is.  There  are  puzzles  and  difficulties  which 
meet  one  at  every  turn.' 

'  It  ought  not  to  be  so  hard  for  you.' 

'  But  why  for  me  ?  It  seems  to  be  harder  for  me 
than  for  anyone  else.' 

It  was  some  time  before  she  answered  him.  Then 
she  said : 

'  Perhaps  you  will  be  angry  with  me  for  saying  this, 
but  it  ought  not  to  be  hard  for  the  son  of  Gerald 
Geoghegan  to  love  Ireland.' 

'  But  I  do  love  Ireland.  Only,  what  am  I  to  do  ? 
How  can  I  help  Ireland  ?' 

'  I've  always  thought  that  your  father  was  one 
of  the  noblest  men  in  all  our  history.  Of  course 
he  failed.  They  all  failed.  Everyone  who  ever  tried 
to  work  for  Ireland  failed.  But  his  failure  was  so 
much  better  than  any  success.  I  love  to  think  of  him 
when  everyone  deserted  him  and  betrayed  him,  and  he 
was  left  alone  at  last,' 

'  Don't  reproach  me,'  said  Sir  Gerald  earnestly.  '  I 
love  his  memory  better  than  you  can.  I'ld  rather  be 
Hke  him,  even  fail  like  him,  than  anything  in  the 
world.  But  what  can  I  do  ?'  You  don't  under- 
stand.' 

'  No,  I  don't  understand,'  said  Hester.     '  I'm  only 


THE  SEETHING  POT  105 

a  girl,  and  how  can  I  understand  your  parties  and 
your  politics  ?  I  hate  them  all,  and  I  hate  this 
pretence  of  helping  Ireland,  and  all  the  fighting  and 
the  bitterness.  I  only  love  Ireland.' 

What  she  said  was  all  very  disjointed  and  ridi- 
culous, but  behind  it  was  a  real  emotion  amounting 
to  a  passion. 

'I  am  ashamed,'  he  said — 'utterly  ashamed.  Do 
you  know,  when  I  came  here  a  week  ago  I  had  my 
mind  made  up  to  let  Irish  affairs  drift,  and  just  to 
enjoy  myself  as  best  I  could  ?' 

She  turned  on  him  fiercely.  'You  can't  do  that. 
You  are  Gerald  Geoghegan's  son,  and  you  can't  live 
for  your  own  pleasure  in  Ireland.' 

'  I  know  now  that  I  can't.  I've  seen  that  since — 
since  you  showed  it  to  me.  I  can't  live  for  my  own 
pleasure,  because  it  would  always  be  spoiled  for  me 
by  the  thought  of  Ireland  ;  but  I  can't  do  anything 
else,  either.  I  am  frightened  by  every  difficulty, 
and  swayed  this  way  and  that.  I'm  nothing  but  a 
coward,' 

Her  mood  altered  suddenly.  'Don't  talk  like 
that,'  she  said  softly.  '  I  cannot  think  of  you  as  a 
coward.' 

Her  words  fell  on  his  ears  as  he  stood  a  little  apart 
from  her,  gazing  out  across  the  sea.  He  did  not  turn 
to  her.  There  was  neither  passion  nor  hope  in  his 
voice  as  he  said  : 

'  I  might  do  something  and  be  some  good  if  I  had 
you  always  with  me.' 


106  THE  SEETHING  POT 

She  shrank  away  from  him  silent  and  frightened. 
For  a  while  he  stood  with  his  head  bowed,  and 
did  not  look  at  her.  Then  suddenly  he  turned 
to  her. 

She  stood  still  and  looked  up  at  him.  '  I  do  not 
understand,'  she  said. 

'I  do  not  understand,  either,  but  I  love  you.  Is 
there  anything  more  that  I  can  say?  I  love  you, 
Hester,  and  have  loved  you  since  I  knew  you.' 

When  she  spoke  again,  it  was  very  softly.  'I 
suppose  I  could  not  have  spoken  to  you  as  I  did — I 
mean,  as  I  did  about  your  father  and  Ireland — unless 
— unless ' 

Then  she  stretched  out  her  hand  to  him.  He  took 
it  and  held  it  in  his  for  a  long  time  silently.  Then, 
half  frightened  at  what  he  did,  he  drew  her  to  him 
and  kissed  her  on  the  lips. 

'  Hester,  you  will  give  me  strength  and  courage  in 
the  time  to  come.  You  will  teach  me  what  to  do  and 
what  to  think.  I  shall  not  be  a  coward  any  more,  or 
a  fool,  for  I  shall  always  have  you  with  me — always, 


1  It  is  very  wonderful  to  think  of,'  she  said.  '  It 
seems  too  great  and  good.' 

'  It  is  very  great.  We  love  each  other,  and  we 
both  love  Ireland,  and  we  have  all  our  lives  be- 
fore us.' 

'  Gerald,'  she  said — and  it  seemed  to  him  that  her 
eyes  flashed  and  her  whole  face  glowed  with  inspira- 
tion— '  I  said  that  everyone  who  ever  tried  to  work  for 


THE  SEETHING  POT  107 

Ireland  failed.     You  and  I  cannot  fail.     We  have  all 
that  goes  to  secure  success.' 

'  All,'  he  said.  '  And  we  love  each  other  ;  so  that 
it  will  matter  nothing  to  us  what  the  world  thinks 
of  us.  I  have  you,  Hester,  and  that  will  always 
be  enough.' 


CHAPTER  IX 

O'HARA  proved  himself  a  sympathetic  companion 
when  he  joined  his  host  at  Clogher  House.  If  Sir 
Gerald  mixed  politics  with  his  first  attempt  at  love- 
making,  he  made  up  for  it  afterwards  by  refusing 
to  discuss  any  subject  which  did  not  lead  directly  or 
indirectly  to  Hester.  O'Hara  listened  without  ap- 
parent boredom  to  raptures,  and  even  stimulated  Sir 
Gerald  by  quoting  appropriate  poetry.  He  entered 
whole  -  heartedly  into  plans  for  making  Clogher 
House  fit  for  the  reception  of  its  new  mistress.  He 
discovered  deficiencies  in  the  furniture,  and  suggested 
the  names  of  Irish  firms  who  could  supply  what  was 
wanted.  He  undertook  a  complete  reformation  of  the 
garden  and  greenhouses,  but  was  defeated  by  the 
dour  obstinacy  of  the  gardener.  Adams  was  a  Scots- 
man, and  proved  impervious  to  blandishments.  He 
declined  to  accept  the  kinship  which  O'Hara  offered 
him  as  a  Gael  '  from  over  the  water.'  He  even 
scoffed  at  the  editor's  favourite  theory  that  the  West 
of  Ireland  might  rival  the  Channel  Islands  in  the 
growth  of  early  vegetables  and  flowers.  Mr.  Godfrey, 

103 


THE  SEETHING  POT  109 

who  was  also  called  into  consultation,  was  less  sym- 
pathetic, but  a  great  deal  more  practical.  It  was 
he  who  suggested  new  fireplaces  for  the  great  recep- 
tion-rooms, and  unearthed  a  carved  marble  chimney- 
piece  which  had  lain  in  its  packing  cases  since 
some  bygone  Geohegan  had  imported  it  from  Italy. 
Canon  Johnston  called  to  offer  his  congratulations, 
and  contributed  a  suggestion  that  the  library  should 
be  catalogued  and  arranged. 

It  was  while  be  was  describing  to  the  other  three 
men  the  lamentable  confusion  of  the  books  that  an 
apple  of  discord  fell  into  the  midst  of  the  party.  A 
letter  was  handed  to  Sir  Gerald  which  contained  a 
request  that  he  would  receive  a  deputation  appointed 
by  the  District  Council.  They  wished,  so  the  letter 
informed  him,  to  propose  a  scheme  for  the  benefit  of 
the  tenants  on  his  estate. 

'  Of  course,  I  shall  receive  them,'  he  said,  handing 
the  letter  to  Mr.  Godfrey. 

'Well,'  said  the  agent,  'I  suppose  it  can't  do  any 
harm  to  listen  to  them ;  but  I  know  what  they  want, 
and  the  thing  is  impossible.' 

'  Who  are  the  members  of  the  deputation  ?'  asked 
Canon  Johnston. 

It  appeared  that  there  were  three :  Father  Fahy, 
Michael  McCarty,  M.P.,  and  Mr.  Walsh,  chairman  of 
the  District  Council. 

'  I  shouldn't  touch  that  lot  with  the  end  of  a 
forty-foot  pole,"  said  the  Canon  when  he  heard  their 
names. 


110  THE  SEETHING  POT 

'  What  they  want,'  said  Mr.  Godfrey,  '  is  to  get 
you  to  divide  up  the  grazing-lands  and  plant  them 
with  judicial  tenants.  That,  of  course,  is  quite  im- 
possible ;  it  would  mean  a  loss  of  a  couple  of  hundred 
a  year  to  you.' 

'  If  it  is  a  question,'  said  O'Hara,  *  of  putting  men 
where  bullocks  roam,  and  substituting  the  smoking 
homestead  for  the  desolate  sheep-walk,  it  ought  to  be 
done  at  any  cost.  The  true  wealth  of  a  nation 
consists  of  men,  not  bullocks.' 

Mr.  Godfrey  and  the  Canon  stared  at  him,  the 
latter  with  sheer  amazement,  the  former  with  scarcely 
veiled  contempt. 

'  Surely '  began  the  Canon. 

'  You  are  a  clergyman,'  said  O'Hara.  '  Isn't  there 
something  in  the  Bible  very  like  a  curse  for  those  who 
add  field  to  field  till  there  is  no  place  left  for  people 
to  live  ?' 

'  My  dear  sir,'  said  the  Canon,  '  you  must  recognise 
that  it  is  perfectly  absurd  to  quote  the  Old  Testa- 
ment prophets  as  if  they  wrote  about  the  management 
of  a  modern  Irish  estate.  The  conditions  of  life  in 
those  times  and  in  those  countries  were  entirely 
different  from  our  own.' 

'  They  preached  righteousness,'  said  O'Hara,  '  and 
that,  I  take  it,  is  eternal.' 

'  Look  here,'  said  Mr.  Godfrey :  '  there's  no  use 
starting  an  argument  about  Isaiah  when  we've  got  to 
deal  with  two  blackguards  and  a  particularly  rampant 
kind  of  priest.  You  don't  want  to  lose  a  couple 


THE  SEETHING  POT  111 

of  hundred  a  year;  and  even  if  you  are  willing  to 
let  that  go,  they'ld  ask  you  next  day  for  another 
two  hundred.  I  know  these  people,  and  it's  quite 
impossible  to  satisfy  them.  You'd  far  better  leave  me 
to  deal  with  them.  I  see  they  want  to  come  here 
to-morrow.  That's  the  day  you  are  expecting  Lady 
Clonfert  and  Miss  Carew  to  luncheon.  You  and 
Mr.  O'Hara  stay  here  and  entertain  the  ladies.  I'll 
deal  with  the  deputation  at  the  office.1 

At  last  Sir  Gerald  spoke : 

'  I  shall  receive  the  deputation  here,  and  listen  to 
what  they  have  to  say.  I  ask  you,  Mr.  Godfrey,  to  be 
present  and  support  me.' 

Mr.  Godfrey  shrugged  his  shoulders.  '  Very  well,' 
he  said ;  '  I  shall  be  here  at  twelve  o'clock,  and  if 
you  choose  to  give  in  to  them,  I  shall  have  done  my 
duty  in  warning  you.  Perhaps,  Canon,  you  and  I 
had  better  be  getting  home.' 

'Wait  a  minute,'  said  Sir  Gerald;  'I  want  to  under- 
stand this  business.  This  land  which  they  want 
appears  to  be  in  my  hands  at  present.  Do  I  farm  it 
myself,  or,  rather,  do  you  farm  it  for  me  ?' 

'  No,'  said  Mr.  Godfrey  ;  '  but  the  men  who  hold  it 
now  can't  go  into  the  land  courts  to  get  their  rents 
reduced.  The  tenants  Father  Fahy  wants  you  to  put 
in  can  and  will.  The  present  men  pay  the  full  value 
of  the  land.  The  rent  is  settled  by  competition.  If 
they  don't  like  their  bargain,  they  give  it  up.  The 
new  tenants,  if  we  are  to  have  new  tenants,  will  get 
rents  fixed  at  two-thirds  of  the  market  value  of  the 


112  THE  SEETHING  POT 

land.    You  will  lose  the  difference.     I  put  it  at  two 
hundred  a  year,  but  it  may  be  more.' 

'  I  see,'  said  Sir  Gerald. 

'  That's  not  quite  all,'  went  on  Mr.  Godfrey.  '  What 
do  you  suppose  happens  to  the  money  you  lose  ?  It 
goes  straight  into  the  pockets  of  the  men  you  put  on 
the  land.  The  day  after  a  tenant  gets  possession  of 
one  of  your  new  farms  he  can  sell  his  interests  in  it 
for  something  between  fifty  pounds  and  five  hundred 
before  he  has  so  much  as  put  a  spade  into  the 
ground.  Now,  Mr.  O'Hara,  you  appear  to  be  a  bit  of 
a  Socialist:  how  do  you  like  that  for  an  unearned 
increment  ?' 

'  I  see  that,'  said  Sir  Gerald.  '  That  is  the  price  of 
his  fixity  of  tenure.' 

'Of  his  fixity  of  tenure,'  said  Mr.  Godfrey,  '  and  his 
artificially  fixed  rent.  But  that's  not  all  yet.  If  you 
accept  Father  Fahy's  scheme,  I  suppose  you  will 
accept  the  tenants  Father  Fahy  suggests  to  you.  You 
will  get  twenty  or  thirty  poverty-stricken  harvest-men 
from  the  bogs,  without  capital  enough  to  buy  a  cow 
apiece.  They'll  start  borrowing  from  the  nearest 
gombeen  man  at  ruinous  interest,  and  you'll  have  to 
forgive  them  half  the  rent  or  turn  them  out.  They 
won't  be  a  pin  the  better  for  the  change.  The  only 
person  who  will  benefit  will  be  Father  Fahy.' 

'  How  on  earth  does  he  come  in  ?'  asked  O'Hara. 

'  Your  study  of  the  prophet  Isaiah/  said  Mr.  God- 
frey, '  has  evidently  not  taught  you  the  nature  of  a 
priest.  He'll  marry  every  one  of  his  bankrupt  harvest- 


THE  SEETHING  POT  113 

men  in  the  inside  of  six  months  to  a  fine  healthy  girl 
from  off  the  mountains,  and  get  a  five-pound  note  for 
each  ceremony.  Then  he'll  have  a  nice  little  income 
coming  in  for  the  next  fifteen  years  for  christening 
babies  at  a  pound  a  head,  and  a  trifle  extra  for 
churching  the  mothers.  I've  been  watching  philan- 
thropists and  Government  officials  fiddling  at  these 
schemes  for  years  back,  and  I  never  saw  one  of  them 
yet  good  for  anything  but  breeding  paupers  to  pay 
priests.' 

Mr.  Godfrey  and  the  Canon  took  their  departure 
together. 

'Who  or  what  is  that  meddling  idiot  O'Hara  ?'  asked 
the  agent  as  they  walked  down  the  avenue. 

'  He  runs  a  paper,'  said  the  Canon.  '  I  never  read 
a  copy  of  it  myself,  but  I  believe  he  is  one  of  that 
half-Nationalist  lot,  like  Dennis  Browne.  There's 
some  excuse  for  Browne — he's  a  Roman  Catholic; 
but  how  any  man  who's  a  Protestant  and  comes  of  a 
decent  family,  as  I  believe  O'Hara  does,  can  mix 
himself  up  with  that  set  is  more  than  I  can  under- 
stand.' 

'  I  wish  he  would  keep  his  mouth  shut.  I'm 
greatly  afraid  Sir  Gerald  is  just  the  kind  of  man 
to  be  taken  with  the  high-falutin  stuff  those  fellows 
talk.' 

'  I  call  it  extremely  bad  form,'  said  the  Canon,  « if 
not  worse,  to  go  dragging  the  Bible  into  a  discussion 
of  the  kind.' 

Sir  Gerald  and  O'Hara  sat  up  far  into  the  night 

8 


114  THE  SEETHING  POT 

discussing  the  situation.  The  editor  quoted  more  or 
less  appropriate  passages  from  Carlyle,  and  produced 
from  his  own  brain  sentiments  clothed  in  language 
which  might  have  been  Carlyle's.  He  fished  out  a 
Bible  from  his  portmanteau,  and  read  aloud  some 
terrific  denunciations  of  unrighteousness  from  Ezekiel 
and  the  minor  prophets.  Sir  Gerald  was  suitably 
impressed,  but  kept  reverting  uneasily  to  the  financial 
aspect  of  the  question. 

'It  isn't  that  I  mind  about  the  £200  a  year,'  he 
said.  '  God  knows  I  don't  want  to  grind  the  faces  of 
the  poor,  or  extract  the  last  possible  penny  of  rent. 
But  look  at  the  thing  this  way :  is  it  right  for  me  to 
pick  out,  arbitrarily,  a  handful  of  my  tenants  and  give 
them  a  present  that  I'm  not  in  a  position  to  give  to 
the  rest.  Wouldn't  that  be  most  unjust — I  mean, 
unjust  to  everybody  else  ?  Then,  there's  another 
thing.  It's  no  good  putting  men  without  capital  on 
to  the  land,  and  it's  for  the  poorest  of  the  poor  that 
I'm  asked  to  do  this.' 

O'Hara  admitted  the  force  of  the  argument,  but 
clung  to  his  conviction  that  somehow  the  thing  ought 
to  be  done. 

'  It's  better  for  the  land,'  he  said,  '  to  be  tilled  than 
grazed.  It's  better  for  the  country  to  have  men  in  it 
than  bullocks.  It's  better  for  the  people  to  have  farms 
to  live  on  than  to  be  pushed  away  to  the  degradation 
of  life  in  the  great  American  cities.  It's  better  for 
you,  too,  though  you  do  lose  money  by  it.  Why,  you 
have  it  in  your  power  to  become  a  genuine  aristocrat. 


THE  SEETHING  POT  115 

— one  of  the  good  men  of  the  world  with  power  in 
your  hands.  You  may  be  a  captain  of  the  world's 
greatest  industry.' 

'  Yes,'  said  Sir  Gerald,  '  I  see  all  that.  But  look 
here :  if  I  were  a  shoemaker  instead  of  a  landlord, 
would  it  be  for  the  good  of  people  in  general  if  I 
picked  out  a  dozen  or  so  of  my  customers  and 
gave  each  a  present  of  a  pair  of  shoes  that  didn't 
fit,  which  would  be  of  no  use  to  them  except  to 
sell  ?' 

'  I  refuse,'  said  O'Hara,  '  to  be  bound  down  to  that 
view  of  the  case.  This  is  a  great  controversy.  It's 
three  great  controversies  rolled  into  one.  It's  Homo 
versus  Bos,  and  I'm  on  the  side  of  man.  It's  Ireland 
or  America  for  our  people,  and  I'm  on  the  side  of 
Ireland.  It's  money-grubbing  or  a  great  captainship 
for  you,  and  there  can  be  no  hesitation  about  your 
choice.' 

'  For  heaven's  sake,  O'Hara,  talk  sense,'  said  Sir 
Gerald  peevishly. 

'  I  am  talking  sense.  I  am  talking  the  only  real 
kind  of  sense  there  is  in  the  world,  but  I'll  climb  down 
if  you  like.  Here's  the  situation :  You  admit  my 
principles.  I  can't  answer  your  political  economy,  or, 
rather,  Mr.  Godfrey's,  for  it  was  he  who  blocked  us 
with  these  money  questions.  Now,  there  must  be 
some  way  out  of  the  difficulty.  We  are  both  right, 
and  all  we  want  is  some  suggestion,  probably  a 
ridiculously  simple  one,  to  join  our  two  rights  into  a 
possible  course  of  action.  There  is  just  one  man  I 

8—2 


116  THE  SEETHING  POT 

know  who  might  be  able  to  help  us.  He's  the  ablest 
man  in  Ireland  to-day.  Will  you  let  me  lay  the  matter 
before  him  ?' 

'  There  is  no  time,'  said  Sir  Gerald.  '  The  deputa- 
tion comes  to-morrow.' 

1  There  is  time  enough.  The  man  I  mean  lives 
within  a  mile  of  your  gate.  His  name  is  John 
O'Neill.' 

Sir  Gerald  remained  silent. 

'I  know  it  is  a  good  deal  to  ask  of  you,'  said 
O'Hara. 

'  I  don't  like  him.  I  believe  him  to  be  responsible 
for  a  most  insulting  and  quite  unprovoked  attack 
on  me.' 

'  Once,'  said  O'Hara,  ( there  was  a  king  called  Ahab, 
and  he  went  to  his  death  because  he  would  not  listen 
to  the  advice  of  a  prophet.  Do  you  remember  why 
he  wouldn't  listen  ?  "  For  he  doth  not  speak  good 
concerning  me,  but  evil."  ' 

'  You  ought  to  have  been  a  parson,  O'Hara.' 

1  Well,  may  I  consult  Micaiah,  the  son  of  Imlah  ?' 

'I  don't  see  how  he  can  help  us,'  said  Sir  Gerald; 
'but  I  will  go  with  you  to-morrow  and  call  on 
him.' 

Sir  Gerald  went  to  bed  in  no  mood  for  self-con- 
gratulation. Yet,  though  he  did  not  know  it,  he 
had  done  a  great  day's  work.  He  had  set  himself 
free  from  leading-strings,  and  had  taken  a  line  of 
his  own  in  opposition  to  his  agent.  He  had  stood 
firm  against  O'Hara's  rhetoric.  He  had  decided  on 


THE  SEETHING  POT  117 

visiting  and  consulting  John  O'Neill,  although  he 
partly  realized  that  in  doing  so  he  would  outrage 
the  dearest  prejudices  of  the  people  who  were  natu- 
rally his  friends. 

O'Neill  was  still  lingering  over  the  remains  of  his 
breakfast  next  morning  when  his  visitors  were  an- 
nounced. He  was  an  admirer  of  O'Hara's  work  in 
The  Critic,  although  the  editor  had  more  than  once 
condemned  unsparingly  the  actions  of  the  Parlia- 
mentary party.  O'Hara  wrote  as  a  gentleman  and 
a  man  of  scrupulous  honour,  and  O'Neill  recognised 
the  justice  of  some  of  his  attacks.  Once  he  had 
favoured  The  Critic  with  a  letter,  a  characteristic 
apology  for  a  particularly  outrageous  incident  in  the 
agitation  for  which  the  chief  admitted  his  responsi- 
bility. 'If  we  were  engaged,'  he  wrote,  'in  a 
controversy  with  men  who  recognised  the  force  of 
reason,  or  who  wanted  to  legislate  for  the  good  of 
Ireland,  I  should  refrain  from  advocating  the  policy 
which  you  condemn.  Unfortunately,  we  are  carrying 
on  a  war  with  the  leaders  of  a  nation  for  whom 
appeals  to  reason  or  justice  are  of  no  force  whatever. 
English  politicians  are,  in  the  first  place,  incurably 
stupid,  and,  in  the  next  place,  determined  to  exploit 
Ireland  for  the  benefit  of  their  own  country.  The  only 
weapon  which  remains  to  us  is  force.  We  must  render 
the  government  of  Ireland  impossible  until  substantial 
justice  is  done  to  us.'  O'Hara  printed  the  letter 
with  a  note,  characterizing  it  as  a  piece  of  diabolical 
cynicism.  O'Neill  never  again  attempted  to  justify 


118  THE  SEETHING  POT 

himself  in  the  columns  of  The  Critic ;  but  he  re- 
spected O'Hara,  and  welcomed  the  opportunity  of 
making  his  acquaintance. 

When  he  entered  the  study  where  Sir  Gerald  and 
O'Hara  awaited  him,  he  simply  bowed,  and  sat  down 
opposite  his  visitors. 

'  I  presume,  gentlemen,'  he  said,  '  since  you  have 
come  here  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning,  that  you 
have  some  business  to  transact  with  me.  If  I  am 
right,  we  need  not  waste  time  in  saying  we  are  glad  to 
see  each  other.' 

Sir  Gerald  felt  strongly  inclined  to  leave  the  house 
at  once.  His  statement,  when  he  brought  himself  to 
make  one,  was  bald,  and  he  left  it  to  O'Hara  to  ask 
for  the  advice  they  had  come  to  get. 

'  I  take  it  for  granted,'  said  O'Neill, '  that  you  wish 
to  act  for  the  benefit  of  your  tenants.  Otherwise  I 
think  your  wisest  plan  will  be  to  leave  the  whole 
matter  in  Mr.  Godfrey's  hands.'  Sir  Gerald  nodded, 
and  O'Neill  went  on :  '  You  realize  that  if  you  attempt 
to  carry  through  any  scheme  of  reform  on  your 
estate  you  will  have  to  face  the  opposition  of  your 
agent  and  the  hostility  of  the  neighbouring  land- 
owners.' 

'  I  am  prepared  for  that,'  said  Sir  Gerald. 

'  You  are  perhaps  not  aware,'  continued  O'Neill, 
'  that  if  you  want  to  do  real  good  you  will  also  have 
to  face  the  hostility  of  the  people  you  are  working  for. 
I  believe  you  will  not  shrink  from  unpopularity. 
You  come  here  with  good  credentials,  you  are  the  son 


THE  SEETHING  POT  119 

of  a  great  man,  and  you  come  with  a  good  introduc- 
tion when  you  come  with  Mr.  O'Hara.' 

Sir  Gerald  felt  his  sense  of  offended  dignity  vanish 
as  O'Neill  spoke.  He  found  himself  waiting  for  the 
chief's  next  words  with  an  assurance  that  his  course 
would  be  made  clear  to  him,  and  that  he  would  have 
no  choice  but  to  follow  it. 

'  Your  difficulty,'  said  O'Neill,  '  has  long  been 
familiar  to  me,  and,  indeed,  to  everyone  who  follows 
the  course  of  the  expensive  experiments  which  English- 
men insist  on  trying  in  this  unfortunate  country. 
Of  course  Mr.  Godfrey  is  perfectly  right  in  saying 
that  it  is  folly  or  worse  to  make  a  present  of  the 
tenant's  interest  in  the  proposed  farms  to  a  set  of 
paupers.  It's  wrong  to  make  presents  of  that  kind  to 
anyone,  and  it's  folly  to  put  men  without  capital  on 
the  land.  Your  new  tenants  must  pay  for  what  they 
get.  When  you  have  divided  up  your  grazing-land, 
put  the  tenants'  interest  up  to  auction.  You'll  get 
more  than  its  proper  value  in  each  case.  Taking 
Mr.  Godfrey's  figures  as  correct,  you  ought  to  get 
£6,000  for  the  tenants'  interest  in  your  new  farms. 
That  would  be  your  £200  a  year  capitalized  at  a  little 
over  3  per  cent.,  roughly  speaking.  You  probably 
will  get  nearer  £8,000,  because  all  over  the  country 
farmers  are  willing  to  give  more  than  the  right  value 
for  the  privilege  of  paying  a  judicial  rent.  Now 
comes  your  second  difficulty.  When  your  new 
tenant  has  paid  this  fine — which  he  will  pay  willingly 
—he  will  be  practically  a  pauper.  He  won't  be  abla 


120  THE  SEETHING  POT 

to  stock  or  work  his  farm.  I  suggest  that  you  lend 
him  the  money  he  has  just  paid  you,  at  such  a  rate 
of  interest  as  will  bring  you  in  the  £200  a  year  you 
stand  to  lose  by  the  fixing  of  the  judicial  rents.  You 
see  how  the  thing  works  out.  You  get  between  rent 
and  interest  what  you  always  did  get  for  the  land. 
No  land  court  can  touch  the  interest  on  your  bond. 
You  also  get  the  kind  of  man  you  want  as  tenant — 
the  man  who  has  money  to  pay  his  way.  He  in  his 
turn  is  saved  from  being  pauperized  by  a  gift  which 
could  only  in  the  end  destroy  his  self-respect  and 
self-reliance.  How  does  the  plan  strike  you?  I 
hope,'  he  added,  smiling,  '  that  Mr.  O'Hara  will  not 
find  it  profoundly  immoral  or  diabolically  cynical.' 

'  It  is  a  beautiful  financial  dodge,'  said  O'Hara. 
It's  the  most  beautiful  dodge  I  ever  heard  of.  But 
I  don't  know  why  on  earth  you  put  us  up  to  it. 
You've  worked  all  your  life  as  if  you  hated  landlords. 
You've  done  more  than  anyone  else  to  rob  them 
systematically,  and  now  you  show  us  a  way  to  defeat 
the  law  you  fought  for  yourself.' 

'  You  quite  mistake  my  position,'  said  O'Neill.  '  I 
don't  hate  landlords  hi  the  least.  There  is  nothing 
in  the  world  I'd  rather  have  than  the  Irish  aris- 
tocracy on  my  side.  Unfortunately,  I  can't  get  them. 
They  are  English  at  heart,  and  not  Irish ;  therefore, 
like  everything  else  that  stands  in  the  way  of  Irish 
nationality,  they  have  got  to  go.  We  have  taken 
their  power  and  most  of  their  influence  from  them. 
Now  we  are  taking  their  property.  I  am  sorry  for  it. 


THE  SEETHING  POT  121 

I  would  rather  they  were  with  us  to  help  to  govern 
Ireland  in  the  days  that  are  coming.  If  they  choose 
to  cling  to  England,  I  can't  help  it.  They  will  be 
robbed  more  and  more.  But  who  robs  them  ?  Their 
own  friends,  the  English  Government.  Why  could 
they  not  have  understood  twenty  years  ago  that  the 
English  care  nothing  for  them  or  their  properties? 
If  they  had  stood  by  their  country,  they  would  have 
been  sitting  to-day  in  an  Irish  Parliament  helping  to 
govern  Ireland,  instead  of  licking  the  boots  of 
politicians  in  Westminster,  who  will  go  on  betraying 
them  right  to  the  end.' 

He  paused. 

'  Go  on/  said  Sir  Gerald.  '  I  want  to  hear  more  of 
what  you  think  about  Ireland.' 

'  I  think  that,  if  you  mean  to  meet  your  deputation 
at  twelve  o'clock,  you  had  better  be  going.  I'm  glad 
if  I  have  been  of  any  use  to  you,  but  I  don't  think  it 
is  good  for  you  to  talk  politics  to  me.  I  am  on  the 
other  side,  you  know.' 

'  Sir  Gerald  is  on  the  side  of  Ireland,'  said  O'Hara ; 
'  so  am  I,  and  so  are  you.' 

'  Ah !'  said  O'Neill.  '  Then,  we  ought  all  to  be  on 
the  same  side.  Isn't  that  so  ?  But,  you  see,  we  are 
not.  There  are  some  things  you  would  not  do  for 
Ireland,  Mr.  O'Hara — so  you  tell  us  in  The  Critic 
now  and  again.  There  are  some  things  Sir  Gerald 
wouldn't  do,  either.  You  see,  you  are  both  gentle- 
men, and  gentlemen  don't  do  certain  things.  Well,  I 
do  them — the  dirty  things  not  fit  for  gentlemen.  I 


122  THE  SEETHING  POT 

do  them,  and  I  expect  my  followers  to  do  them — for 
Ireland.  So  you  see,  Mr.  Editor,  though  we  are  all 
three  for  Ireland,  we  can't  be  on  the  same  side, 
can  we  ?' 

He  rose  and  held  out  his  hand  to  Sir  Gerald. 

'  Unless,'  he  said,  smiling  slightly,  '  you  would 
rather  not  shake  hands  with  a  man  who  is  on  my 
side  in  politics.' 


CHAPTER  X 

SIR  GERALD,  Mr.  Godfrey,  and  Mr.  O'Hara  awaited 
the  deputation  in  the  great  gallery  of  Clogher  House. 
Mr.  Godfrey  was  extremely  uncomfortable  and  anxious 
lest  his  employer  should  make  a  fool  of  himself.  Sir 
Gerald  had  an  annoying  feeling  that  he  had  not 
treated  his  agent  fairly.  He  awaited  rather  nervously 
the  explanation  which  he  knew  must  come,  and  the 
protest  which  was  sure  to  follow  it.  O'Hara  suffered 
from  misgivings  about  the  wisdom  of  having  brought 
Sir  Gerald  and  O'Neill  together.  All  three  wished 
the  interview  with  the  deputation  well  over. 

Sir  Gerald  observed  with  some  curiosity  and  wonder 
the  conduct  of  the  visitors  when  they  arrived.  He 
had  gathered  from  Mr.  Godfrey's  tone  that  Father 
Fahy  was  the  man  he  had  really  to  deal  with ;  but  the 
priest  kept  himself  in  the  background.  He  walked 
down  the  long  gallery  behind  his  colleagues,  and 
saluted  Sir  Gerald  with  a  deprecating  bow.  His 
manner  and  attitude  were  those  of  a  man  who  has 
been  forced,  rather  against  his  will,  into  a  position 
which  he  feels  to  be  doubtful.  The  chairman  of  the 
District  Council  was  fidgety  and  ill-at-ease.  Michael 

123 


THE  SEETHING  POT 

McCarty  alone  seemed  sure  of  himself  and  satisfied 
with  the  part  he  had  to  play. 

It  was  he  who  produced  a  lengthy  document  and 
read  from  it  a  quite  surprising  list  of  figures.  He 
showed  how  Sir  Gerald's  property  was  for  the  most 
part  divided  between  two  classes  of  tenants.  There 
were  a  few  who  held  big  tracts  of  land  and  paid 
large  rents.  There  was  a  large  number  living  on 
holdings  of  five  or  six  acres.  He  then  described 
the  condition  of  these  small  tenants,  showing,  by 
careful  estimates  of  their  possibilities  of  making  money 
off  their  land,  how  difficult  it  was  for  them  to  exist 
under  the  most  favourable  circumstances.  He  quoted 
figures  to  show  how  many  of  them  emigrated  to  the 
United  States,  and  how  many  went  every  year  to 
England  or  Scotland  as  agricultural  labourers.  '  The 
whole  potential  wealth  of  the  district,'  so  the  document 
concluded,  '  is  in  the  hands  of  the  landlord  and  a 
few  individuals  who  refuse  to  develop  it.  The  great 
majority  of  the  people  live  under  conditions  which 
condemn  them  to  hopeless  poverty.' 

1 1  remember  reading  an  address,'  said  Mr.  Godfrey, 
'  which  you  presented  some  time  ago  to  Mr.  Chesney. 
You  wanted  the  Government  to  build  some  light 
railways.  You  then  represented  this  district  as  a 
perfect  hive  of  industry  and  prosperity,  which  required 
nothing  but  a  few  steam  tramways  to  make  it  wealthy 
and  contented.  How  do  you  account  for  the  dis- 
crepancy between  that  statement  and  the  one  you 
have  just  read  to  us  ?' 


THE  SEETHING  POT  125 

The  deputation  consulted  together  in  whispers.  It 
was  apparently  Father  Fahy  who  suggested  the 
answer  to  which  Mr.  Walsh  gave  utterance,  with  a 
smile  of  engaging  simplicity. 

'Them  statistics,  which  you  refer  to,  Mr.  Godfrey, 
was  compiled  for  an  entirely  different  purpose.' 

Mr.  Godfrey  also  smiled. 

'  And  which  of  the  two  sets,'  he  asked,  '  comes 
nearest  to  the  actual  truth  ?' 

'  Sure,  then,  Mr.  Godfrey,'  said  Walsh,  '  you 
wouldn't  be  wishing  us  to  miss  the  chance  of  getting 
what  might  be  got  out  of  the  Government.  What 
harm  would  it  do  anyone  if  they  spent  a  few  pounds 
in  the  country  ?' 

'  Well,'  said  Sir  Gerald,  '  perhaps  you'll  tell  us 
now  for  what  purpose  these  statistics  were  com- 
piled ?' 

'We  propose,'  said  McCarty,  'that  the  grazing- 
lands  at  present  in  your  own  hands  should  be  divided 
into  farms  of  twenty  acres  or  thereabouts,  and  let 
to  the  tenants  who  are  at  present  living  on  smaller 
farms.  In  complying  with  our  request  you  will 
confer  a  lasting  benefit  upon  the  tenants.  You  will 
ameliorate ' 

Sir  Gerald  cut  him  short. 

'  The  day  I  arrived  in  Clogher,  Mr.  McCarty,  you 
called  me  a  tyrant  and  a  bloodsucker.  I  think  these 
were  the  words.  Now,  do  you  think  it  is  any  use 
appealing  to  a  tyrant  and  a  bloodsucker  to  confer  a 
benefit  on  anyone  or  to  ameliorate  anything  ?' 


126  THE  SEETHING  POT 

Mr.  Godfrey  breathed  a  sudden  sigh  of  relief.  After 
all,  it  seemed  that  Sir  Gerald  was  not  going  to  give 
himself  away.  He  hastened  to  share  in  the  dis- 
comfiture of  the  foe,  and  for  the  first  time  spoke 
with  his  usual  confidence.  '  Mr.  Walsh,'  he  said, 
'  you're  a  business  man,  and  a  successful  one  in  your 
own  line.  Don't  you  know  perfectly  well  that  the 
first  thing  the  new  tenants  would  do  would  be  to 
go  into  the  land  courts  and  get  their  rents  reduced  ? 
Do  you  seriously  propose  that  Sir  Gerald  is  to  submit 
to  a  loss  of  £200  a  year  for  the  sake  of  a  set  of 
men  who  have  never  done  anything  but  abuse  him 
or  his  predecessors,  and  who  wouldn't  even  so  much 
as  pretend  to  be  grateful  ?' 

No  one  answered,  or  indeed  heeded,  Mr.  Godfrey's 
question.  There  was  a  struggle  going  on  between 
McCarty  and  the  priest.  It  seemed  as  if  Father  Fahy 
were  trying  to  restrain  his  friend.  At  last  McCarty 
thrust  the  priest  aside.  He  took  a  step  forward  and 
raised  his  hand.  His  eyes  shone,  and  it  was  clear 
that  he  was  under  the  spell  of  a  strong  emotion. 
Mr.  Godfrey  leaned  back  with  a  smile.  He  was  quite 
satisfied  that  in  his  excitement  McCarty  would  say 
something  outrageous,  which  would  alienate  for  ever 
any  lingering  sympathy  Sir  Gerald  might  have 
with  the  deputation.  McCarty  spoke  as  if  he  were 
delivering  an  oration  to  a  crowded  assembly.  He 
gesticulated  with  his  hands.  His  voice  rose  almost 
to  a  shout. 

'  Mr.   Godfrey,'  he  said,  '  you'll  bear  me  witness 


THE  SEETHING  POT  127 

that  I  speak  the  truth.  What  I  am  going  to  tell  Sir 
Gerald  Geoghegan  is  down  in  the  books  of  the  estate. 
After  the  famine  the  people  were  cleared  off  the  very 
lands  we're  talking  of.  It's  nothing  but  our  own  old 
homes  we  ask  for  back  again.  My  own  mother,  sir, 
was  a  girl  at  the  time.  Her  mother  was  turned  out, 
and  she  a  widow  with  young  children.  She  was  a 
decent  woman — one  that  worked  hard,  and  paid  her 
rent,  and  reared  her  family  well.  Yes,  and  she  loved 
your  people.  They  were  the  old  stock,  and  why 
wouldn't  she  love  them?  But  it's  little  your  uncle 
cared.  He  turned  her  and  her  children  out  on  to  the 
roadside.  He  burnt  the  house  before  their  eyes. 
They  might  have  starved,  and  they  would  have 
starved — as  many  a  family  starved  on  the  roadside  in 
those  days — but  for  a  brother  of  my  grandmother's 
that  took  them  in,  into  the  same  little  cabin  where  my 
mother  is  living  this  minute.  We  haven't  forgotten, 
sir,  and  we  can't  forget — never,  so  long  as  the  breath 
of  life  is  in  us — what  happened  in  those  times,  nor 
how  your  people  treated  our  people.  If  I  spoke  of  you 
as  a  tyrant,  didn't  them  that  went  before  you  deserve 
the  name  of  us  ?  And  I  say  this ' 

'Hush  to  you  now!'  said  the  priest.  'Isn't  that 
enough  for  you  to  say?  Don't  you  see  that  Sir 
Gerald  is  wanting  to  speak  ?' 

Mr.  Godfrey,  still  smiling,  glanced  at  O'Hara.  He 
already  turned  over  in  his  mind  the  sweets  of  his 
coming  triumph. 

Sir  Gerald  spoke  quietly,  almost  coldly,  but  with  a 


128  THE  SEETHING  POT 

certain  tension  in  his  voice.  What  McCarty  said  had 
moved  him. 

'  I  make  this  proposal  to  you,  gentlemen.  I  shall 
divide  up  the  land  in  question,  as  you  wish,  into  farms 
of  about  twenty  acres  each.  I  shall  fix  the  rents  at  a 
figure  which  the  land  court  is  not  likely  to  reduce. 
I  shall  then  put  the  tenants'  interest  in  the  new 
farms  up  to  public  auction,  exactly  as  is  done  every 
day  by  outgoing  tenants.  The  money  I  receive  from 
these  sales  I  shall  be  prepared  to  lend  to  the  incoming 
tenants  at  a  moderate  rate  of  interest.  I  shall  thus 
secure  myself  from  loss,  and  at  the  same  time  get  a 
class  of  tenants  who  have  capital  enough  to  work  the 
land.' 

The  members  of  the  deputation  consulted  together 
in  whispers.  Then  for  the  first  time  the  priest  took 
a  leading  part  in  the  proceedings.  '  May  I  ask,'  he 
said,  '  whether  this  plan  is  of  Mr.  Godfrey's  making, 
or  whether  the  gentleman  on  your  left  hand  had 
anything  to  do  with  it  ?' 

'I  don't  see,'  said  Sir  Gerald,  'that  it  matters  in 
the  least  who  proposed  the  plan.  I  have  laid  it  before 
you,  and  I  am  prepared  to  act  on  it.' 

'Have  you  considered,'  said  the  priest — and  this 
time  there  was  a  note  of  menace  in  his  voice — 
'  what  will  happen  if  the  League  forbids  anyone  to 
take  the  farms  on  your  terms  ?  How  will  you  be 
situated  with  your  land  striped  and  the  graziers 
gone  ?' 

'  Surely,'  said  O'Hara,  '  the  League  has  more  sense 


THE  SEETHING  POT  129 

than  to  issue  such  an  order.  I  don't  believe  the 
people  would  obey  it  if  they  did.' 

'  We  should  like,'  said  the  priest,  '  to  report  your 
proposal  to  the  District  Council  before  we  say  what  we 
think  of  it.' 

'  Keport  it  to  the  League,  you  mean,'  said  Mr.  God- 
frey as  the  deputation  withdrew.  'Everyone  knows 
the  Council  daren't  do  anything  but  what  the  League 
tells  them.' 

After  they  were  gone,  he  shook  Sir  Gerald  warmly 
by  the  hand. 

'  I  congratulate  you,'  he  said.  '  You  cornered  the 
blackguards  neatly.  You  need  never  divide  that  land 
at  all.  Father  Fahy  runs  the  League,  and  you  may 
take  your  oath  he  won't  have  your  plan  at  any  price. 
The  man  who  is  prepared  to  put  down  a  good  round 
fine  for  his  farm  is  a  careful  and  independent  man. 
That's  not  the  class  Father  Fahy  wants  to  see  settled 
on  the  land.  I  wish,  though,  you'd  told  me  before- 
hand what  you  were  going  to  do.  I  felt  infernally 
anxious,  quite  thought  you  might  give  in.  Instead  of 
that,  you've  taken  as  neat  a  score  off  them  as  1  ever 
heard  of.' 

'  I'm  afraid  you're  mistaken,'  said  Sir  Gerald.  '  I 
didn't  mean  to  score  off  them.  I  admit  the  justice  of 
what  they  said,  and  I  think  the  people  ought  to  have 
the  land.1 

'  Oh,  quite  so,'  said  Mr.  Godfrey,  smiling. 

'  You  don't  appear  to  think,'  said  O'Hara,  '  that  Sir 
Gerald  is  in  earnest.  I  don't  know  how  you  can 

9 


130  THE  SEETHING  POT 

expect  him  to  listen  to  the  story  of  those  famine  clear- 
ances without  wanting  to  do  something  in  atonement 
for  all  the  suffering.' 

'My  dear  sir/  said  Mr.  Godfrey,  'I  haven't  the 
smallest  objection  to  your  kind  of  philanthropy  and 
fine  talk  as  long  as  it  doesn't  cost  money.  In  this 
case  I  feel  perfectly  safe.  Father  Fahy  is  the  master 
of  the  League,  and  there  is  just  as  much  chance  of 
his  turning  Protestant  as  of  his  allowing  the  people 
to  accept  that  proposal.1 

His  coolly  contemptuous  tone  nettled  O'Hara. 

*I  think,'  he  said,  'Father  Fahy  won't  have  much 
of  a  say  this  time.  The  League  has  got  another 
master,  as  you  know  very  well,  Mr.  Godfrey.  John 
O'Neill  is  a  bigger  man  than  Father  Fahy.' 

'  I  dare  say  he  is,'  said  Mr.  Godfrey ;  '  but  I  don't 
see  any  reason  for  supposing  that  he'll  interfere  in  the 
matter  one  way  or  other.' 

'  There  is  a  very  good  reason,  though,'  said  O'Hara. 
'  The  plan  is  his  own  from  start  to  finish.  Sir  Gerald 
and  I  consulted  him  this  morning.' 

'  Is  this  true  ?'  asked  Mr.  Godfrey,  turning  to  Sir 
Gerald. 

'  Perfectly  true.  I  meant  to  have  told  you  myself, 
and  told  you  in  a  different  way,  but  it  is  as  well  for 
you  to  know  now.  I'm  sorry,  though,  that  you  have 
heard  it  in  the  way  you  have.' 

'  Sir  Gerald, '  said  Mr.  Godfrey  after  a  short  pause, 
f  I  ask  you  to  accept  my  resignation  of  the  agency.  I 
absolutely  decline  to  share  the  management  of  your 


THE  SEETHING  POT  131 

estate  with  John  O'Neill.  Thank  God,  1  have  neither 
wife  nor  child,  and  am  an  independent  man.  I  can 
live  on  what  I  have,  but  I'd  rather  starve  in  a  ditch 
than  associate  myself  with  a  man  who  is  a  rebel  and 
a  murderer.  I'll  say  this,  too :  If  John  O'Neill  is  to 
be  your  confidant  and  friend,  I  decline  the  honour  of 
your  acquaintance.' 

O'Hara  and  Sir  Gerald  stared  blankly  at  each  other 
when  Mr.  Godfrey  left  them. 

'The  fat  is  in  the  fire,'  said  O'Hara,  'and  no 
mistake !' 

'  This  is  frightful,'  said  Sir  Gerald ;  '  I  couldn't  have 
believed  it  possible  that  political  prejudice  could  have 
driven  a  man  so  far.' 

'  Well,  I'm  not  sure  that  I  should  call  it  simply 
political  prejudice.  You  see,  Godfrey  went  through 
the  "  bad  times "  here.  He  was  a  great  friend  of 
that  poor  fellow  Morris  who  was  shot.  He  was  fired 
at  himself  once  or  twice.  That  kind  of  thing  leaves 
its  mark  on  a  man.1 

'  I'm  sorry,'  said  Sir  Gerald, '  more  sorry  than  I  can 
say,  that  this  has  happened.' 

'  I'm  sorry,  too ;  but,  after  all,  the  man  was  im- 
possible. Nothing  can  be  done  with  men  of  that 
stamp.  He  belongs  to  the  old  order.  He  would 
always  have  been  a  thorn  in  your  side.  In  the  new 
Ireland,  where  all  classes  are  to  unite  for  the  common 
good  of  their  country,  there  is  no  room  for  the  irre- 
concilables.' 

'  I  shall  ask  him  to  reconsider  his  decision.' 

9—2 


THE  SEETHING  POT 

'  Not  a  bit  of  use.  He  won't  do  that  unless  you 
apologize  for  consulting  John  O'Neill,  and  promise 
him  to  be  a  good  boy  and  never  do  such  a  thing 
again.' 

'  That's  impossible,  of  course,'  said  Sir  Gerald.  '  I 
erossed  my  rubicon  this  morning.  If  Godfrey  won't 
keep  on  the  agency,  I  shall  ask  O'Neill  to  suggest 
someone  to  take  his  place.' 

'  I  don't  think,'  said  O'Hara,  laughing,  '  that  you 
ean  exactly  ask  O'Neill  to  recommend  an  agent  to 
you.  Of  course  he  is  an  able  man  and  all  that,  but — 
well,  it  would  be  rather  like  a  shepherd  asking  the 
wolf  for  the  name  of  a  good  reliable  watch-dog. 
Besides,  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  get  too  thick  with 
O'Neill.  He  is  a  marked  man,  very  indelibly  marked 
indeed.  There  is  no  use  your  flying  in  the  face  of 
prejudice.  You  ought  to  aim  at  arousing  a  national 
spirit  among  the  upper  classes.  You  have  a  magnifi- 
cent opportunity,  and  you  must  not  throw  it  away  by 
getting  yourself  branded  at  the  outset  as  a  friend  of 
John  O'Neill's.  If  you  do,  you  will  make  an  enemy 
of  every  gentleman  in  Ireland,  and  your  influence  will 
be  gone.' 

'  O'Hara,  you  are  the  merest  dreamer.  I've  not 
had  a  twentieth  part  of  your  experience  of  Ireland 
but  I  know  this — that  the  hope  of  rousing  our  gentry 
to  a  sense  of  patriotism  is  a  delusion.  Look  at 
Godfrey  and  his  conduct  to-day — and  he's  a  type.' 

It  appeared  that  O'Hara  was  right  in  supposiag 
lhat  Mr.  Godfrey  would  persist  in  his  determination  to 


THE  SEETHING  POT  13* 

resign  the  agency.    The  next  morning  brought  a  letter 
from  him. 

'  I  hope  you  will  understand,'  he  wrote,  '  that  I  take 
this  step  solely  because  it  is  impossible  for  me  to 
associate  myself  with  Mr.  John  O'Neill  in  the  manage- 
ment of  your  estate.  I  have  spent  forty  years  of  my 
life  in  fighting  Irish  agitators,  and  I  am  too  old  now 
to  change  the  colour  of  my  coat  and  adapt  my  ways 
to  theirs.  I  hope  that  you  will  not  think  that  I  bear 
you,  personally,  any  ill-will.  I  may  have  spoken  too 
strongly  in  your  house  to-day.  I  was  very  much 
amazed  and  shocked  at  what  you  told  me.  If  I  said 
anything  which  seemed  to  you  offensive,  I  ask  yon. 
to  accept  my  apologies.  Now  that  our  relations  as 
employer  and  employed  are  at  an  end,  I  hope  you 
will  allow  me,  as  an  older  man  and  your  sincere  well- 
wisher,  to  offer  you  a  piece  of  advice.  Do  not  drift 
into  an  intimacy  with  John  O'Neill.  You  are  bound 
to  discover  sooner  or  later  that  he  is  an  entirely 
unscrupulous  man.  I  give  you  my  opinion  of  him 
deliberately  and  carefully.  He  has  no  sense  of 
honour,  nor  any  conscience  capable  of  distinguishing 
right  from  wrong.  It  is  not  possible  for  you  to  be 
his  friend  without  finding  yourself  committed,  sooner 
or  later,  to  some  course  of  which  you  cannot  possibly 
approve.' 

O'Hara's  comment  on  the  letter  was  characteristic: 
'  He  has  blotted   himself  out   of  the  book  of  the 
living.     He  has  disappeared  as  the  rest  of  the  clasa 
to  which  he  belongs  is  disappearing.     It  is  a  pity,  for 


134  THE  SEETHING  POT 

it  is  gentlemen  that  Ireland  wants  to-day,  and  will 
want  more  in  the  future.' 

It  is  likely  that  O'Hara  was  right.  The  future 
historian  will  probably  view  the  ruin  of  the  Irish 
aristocracy  as  a  great,  though  inevitable,  misfortune. 
The  end  of  the  seventeenth  century  saw  the  passing 
away  of  one  Irish  aristocracy.  The  Jacobite  nobility 
and  gentry,  who  were  driven  from  the  service  of 
Ireland  into  that  of  France,  Spain,  and  Austria,  were 
lost  through  their  incurable  loyalty  to  a  King  who  was 
a  fool.  Ireland  suffered.  She  lay  like  a  corpse  for 
a  century.  Yet  her  case  was  not  wholly  hopeless, 
because  the  aristocracy  she  lost  was  succeeded  by 
another.  Strong  men  took  the  place  of  those  who 
were  gone,  and  they  in  their  turn  learnt  to  be  Irish- 
men. After  breathing  the  atmosphere  of  Ireland  for 
a-  hundred  years,  this  race  of  men  rose  up,  demanded 
and  got  freedom  for  the  country  of  their  adoption. 
The  end  of  the  nineteenth  century  saw  the  ruin,  the 
beginning  of  the  twentieth  will  see  the  final  extinction, 
of  this  aristocracy.  It  is  curious  that  they,  too,  are 
perishing  through  mistaken  loyalty.  They  have  quite 
forgotten  that  their  grandfathers  stood  for  Irish 
nationality.  They  have  chosen  to  call  themselves 
English.  In  the  future  men  will  speak  of  them  as 
stupid  and  blind  almost  beyond  belief,  but  no  one 
will  call  them  either  cowardly  or  base.  At  different 
stages  of  the  struggle  they  might  have  saved  them- 
selves and  led  a  really  united  Ireland  in  a  great  battle 
for  nationality.  They  never  did,  and  never  would. 


THE  SEETHING  POT  135 

They  conceived  of  themselves  as  an  English  garrison, 
and  held  loyalty  to  England  as  their  prime  duty. 
Never,  surely,  not  even  in  the  case  of  James  II.,  has 
loyalty  been  so  hopelessly  misplaced.  England  has 
betrayed  them  again  and  again,  has  deliberately 
sacrificed  them  not  once  or  twice.  There  is  probably 
no  more  pathetic  instance  of  dog-like  fidelity  than  the 
way  the  Irish  gentry  have  turned,  and  still  turn,  to 
lick  the  foot  that  spurns  them.  This  has  been  their 
grand  mistake,  their  crime,  since  excessive  stupidity 
must  in  history  be  reckoned  for  a  crime.  The 
peasantry  whom  they  despised  were  wiser ;  for  long 
ago,  in  their  own  tongue,  they  made  a  proverb  which 
might  have  saved  the  gentry  if  they  had  known  it : 
'  Beware  of  the  head  of  a  bull,  of  the  heels  of  a  horse, 
of  the  smile  of  an  Englishman.' 


CHAPTER  XI 

THERE  is  a  passage  somewhere  in  his  works  in 
which  Swift  expresses  his  admiration  of  the  excellent 
bishops  sent  over  in  his  time  from  England  to 
govern  the  Irish  Church.  Unfortunately,  as  the 
Dean  points  out,  these  worthy  men  were  invariably 
attacked  by  highwaymen  shortly  after  leaving  London. 
Their  robes  and  their  papers  were  taken  from  them, 
and  the  impudent  robbers  travelled  over  to  Ireland 
and  entered  into  possession  of  the  vacant  sees,  there- 
by working  quite  incalculable  mischief.  Something 
of  the  same  kind  seems  to  have  been  happening  ever 
since.  England,  indeed,  no  longer  sends  over  bishops. 
She  now  devises  laws  for  the  government  of  the 
country,  and  sends  them  over  to  Dublin  Castle  by 
post  or  telegraph.  The  laws  when  they  leave  West- 
minster are  admirable,  as  admirable  as  the  bishops 
whose  fate  Swift  deplored.  Unfortunately,  some  subtle 
change  comes  over  them  before  they  cross  St.  George's 
Channel.  We  can  hardly  lay  the  blame  on  highway- 
men nowadays.  Besides,  would  any  highwayman, 
even  a  desperate  and  broken  barrister,  care  to  steal  an 
Act  of  Parliament  ?  We  must  imagine  that  there 

136 


THE  SEETHING  POT  137 

lurks  somewhere  in  Wales  a  malevolent  Celtic  sprite 
who  finds  a  pleasure  in  effecting  those  subtle  changes 
in  the  beautiful  laws  of  the  English  Parliament  which 
make  them  such  troublesome  and  harmful  enactments 
when  they  arrive.  It  may  be  difficult  for  the  modern 
mind  to  accept  the  existence  of  this  sprite,  but  the 
only  other  hypothesis  which  would  account  for  the 
facts  of  the  case  is  that  the  laws  made  by  the  collec- 
tive wisdom  of  Great  Britain  are  not  wise  laws.  This 
is,  of  course,  wholly  impossible  to  believe,  and  we  are 
thrown  back,  until  scientific  men  investigate  the 
matter  further,  on  the  hypothesis  of  a  supernatural 
agency. 

Nothing,  for  instance,  could  have  been  more  ad- 
mirable, when  it  left  Westminster,  than  the  statute 
which  regulates  the  local  government  of  Ireland.  The 
genius  for  politics  which  has  always  characterized 
England's  dealings  with  inferior  races  suggested  a 
clause  which  forbade  any  priest  or  minister  of  religion 
becoming  a  member  of  a  board  or  council.  Nothing 
could  have  been  wiser.  Everyone  knows  that  if  the 
Nationalist  priests  and  Orange  parsons  could  only  be 
kept  from  interfering,  Irish  local  politicians  would 
work  calmly  and  unitedly  for  the  people's  good. 
Clearly,  the  Local  Government  Act  was  in  a  fair  way 
to  solve  the  whole  problem  of  Irish  government. 
Unfortunately,  owing  to  one  of  those  subtle  changes, 
which,  except  on  the  Welsh  sprite  hypothesis,  it  is 
impossible  to  explain,  the  plan  didn't  work  out. 
Priests  don't,  of  course,  sit  on  local  boards  as  elected 


138  THE  SEETHING  POT 

members.  They  preside  over  preliminary  meetings 
of  the  particular  League  which  happens  at  the  time  to 
be  in  fashion.  Here  the  business  of  local  government 
is  discussed,  resolutions  are  prepared,  and  affairs  come 
before  the  actual  board  or  council  merely  to  receive 
formal  approval. 

Thus,  it  happened  that  Sir  Gerald's  proposal  for 
dealing  with  his  land  was  brought  before  the  local 
branch  of  the  League.  The  nominal  president  of  tke 
branch  was  John  O'Neill,  but  local  politics  interested 
him  very  little,  and  he  generally  left  it  to  Father  Fahy 
to  act  as  chairman  of  the  meetings.  The  priest  had 
worked  hard  beforehand  to  insure  a  decisive  rejection 
of  Sir  Gerald's  proposal.  He  knew  very  well  that 
moat  of  the  farmers  and  many  of  the  shopkeepers 
would  regard  the  suggested  terms  as  fair,  and  would 
be  prepared  to  give  the  plan  a  trial.  In  Ireland, 
however,  it  is  always  quite  possible  to  induce  an 
assembly  collectively  to  give  a  vote  of  which  every 
individual  voter  disapproves.  If  you  can  privately 
persuade  each  man  that  he  is  likely  to  find  himself  a 
member  of  a  small  and  obnoxious  minority,  he  will 
readily  agree,  not  only  to  hold  his  tongue,  but  to  give 
his  vote  to  what  he  conceives  to  be  the  popular  side. 
Father  Fahy  was  an  adept  at  the  art  of  private 
persuasion.  He  called  it  '  personal  explanation.' 
He  and  his  curates  worked  hard,  with  the  result  that, 
when  the  day  of  the  meeting  arrived,  he  felt  fairly 
confident  of  securing  a  contemptuous  rejection  of  the 
proposal  he  disliked. 


THE  SEETHING  POT  139 

He  was  surprised  to  find,  on  his  arrival,  that  John 
O'Neill  occupied  the  chair.  He  didn't  understand 
why  the  president  should  have  chosen  this  particular 
occasion  for  taking  part  in  the  proceedings  of  the 
League.  It  did  not  appear,  however,  that  the  chair- 
man's part  was  likely  to  be  an  active  one.  After  the 
briefest  possible  description  of  the  business  before  the 
meeting,  O'Neill  called  on  Father  Fahy  to  give  an 
account  of  the  work  of  the  deputation. 

The  priest  rose  to  the  occasion.  He  told  his 
audience  the  well-known  tale  of  the  clearances  which 
followed  the  famine  years.  He  reminded  them  of  the 
ruined  cottages  and  broken  fences  which  were  scattered 
over  the  wide  ranches  where  the  cattle  grazed.  He 
told  them  of  their  sons  and  daughters  driven  away 
to  America,  through  want  of  employment  and  the 
impossibility  of  getting  land.  He  compared  Ireland 
to  Egypt  on  the  night  of  the  last  great  plague. 

'  There  is  not  a  house,'  he  said,  '  hi  the  land  but 
mourns  its  first-born,  gone  as  completely  as  if  death 
had  taken  him.  For  all  this  a  remedy  is  at  hand. 
You  are  starving  in  the  midst  of  plenty.  Land,  land 
in  abundance,  is  at  your  doors — the  very  land  which 
your  fathers  tilled,  land  that  to-day  would  support 
your  sons,  where  brave  men  might  build  homes  for 
your  daughters.' 

Every  word  the  priest  said  was  true;  and  his 
audience  recognised  the  truth,  not  as  an  abstract 
proposition,  but  as  a  matter  of  personal  experienca 
They  had  felt  the  poverty,  and  the  bitterness  of  part- 


140  THE  SEETHING  POT 

ing.  As  the  speech  reached  its  climax  it  was  inter- 
rupted with  cheer  after  cheer.  The  priest  held  up  his 
hand  for  silence.  He  went  on  to  describe  Sir  Gerald's 
answer  to  the  deputation.  He  stated  the  proposed 
terms  honestly  enough,  but  he  allowed  his  audience 
no  time  to  grasp  their  meaning. 

'  What  he  demands  is  this,'  he  continued  :  '  You  are 
to  give  him  your  savings.  You  are  to  beg  their  wages 
from  your  children  in  America.  You  are  to  toil  in  the 
harvest- fields  of  England.  You — you  who  can  scarcely 
fill  your  mouths  with  bread — you  are  to  give  him 
£6,000 ;  you  are  to  give  it  to  him  in  return  for  land 
that  by  the  right  of  God's  law  is  your  own  already. 
And  that  is  not  all.  You  are  to  be  his  debtors,  too. 
You  are  to  sign  yourself  into  the  worst  slavery  the 
world  knows  of — bondage  to  the  gombeen-man.  We 
have  known  our  landlords  as  tyrants  in  the  past, 
and  learnt  to  hate  them.  For  the  future  we  are  to 
see  them  as  usurers  as  well,  and  learn  to  despise 
them.' 

The  meeting  was  worked  up  to  a  frenzy  of  excite- 
ment There  were  shouts;  sticks  and  hats  were 
waved.  John  O'Neill  alone  seemed  perfectly  unmoved. 
During  the  earlier  part  of  the  speech  he  had  scribbled 
idly  on  the  paper  before  him.  Afterwards  he  took  a 
book  from  his  pocket  and  read  it,  leaning  back  in  his 
chair. 

Michael  McCarty  followed  Father  Fahy.  He  de- 
scribed Sir  Gerald's  proposal  as  a  trap.  '  It  emanates/ 
he  said,  '  from  the  rent  office.  It  is  worthy  of  the 


THE  SEETHING  POT  141 

worst  traditions  of  the  old  Orange  ascendancy.  We 
can  guess  at  its  author.  We  know  of  old  the  malig- 
nant craft  of  the  hireling  who  oppresses  and  enslaves 
us.  Let  us  fling  it  back  in  the  teeth  of  its  author  and 
his  employer.  Let  us  tell  Mr.  Godfrey  and  Sir  Gerald 
Geoghegan  that  we  prefer  open  war  to  the  poison  of 
pretended  friendship.  Are  they  afraid  to  meet  us 
with  the  arms  of  men,  that  they  attack  us  with  the 
cunning  of  hell  V 

Mr.  Walsh  rose  next.  His  position  was  a  difficult 
one.  He  had  to  speak  to  an  audience  excited  to  fever- 
heat  and  craving  for  the  stimulus  of  violent  words. 
The  possibilities  of  the  English  language  were  com- 
pletely exhausted ;  there  were  really  no  more  terrific 
phrases  left.  Under  the  circumstances,  he  probably 
did  wisely  in  simply  proposing  a  resolution  which 
declared  Sir  Gerald's  scheme  to  be  detestable. 

Then  O'Neill  rose  slowly  to  his  feet.  He  looked 
round  the  meeting  with  a  half-smile,  which  hardened 
gradually  about  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  as  his  eyes 
rested  on  Father  Fahy.  When  he  spoke,  his  cold, 
unimpassioned  tones  held  the  audience  silent  by  force 
of  their  contrast  with  what  had  gone  before. 

'  Before  this  resolution  is  seconded,'  he  said,  *  I 
should  like  to  say  that  in  attributing  Sir  Gerald 
Geoghegan's  proposal  to  Mr.  Godfrey  you  are  putting 
the  saddle  on  the  wrong  horse.  The  scheme  which 
you  seem  inclined  to  condemn  is  mine.  I  was  the 
author  of  it.  I  suggested  it  to  Sir  Gerald  Geoghegan.' 

He  sat  down  again  and  took  up  his  book,  which  he 


142  THE  SEETHING  POT 

had  left  face  downwards  on  the  table.  There  was 
dead  silence  in  the  room.  No  man  looked  at  another, 
and  if  by  chance  one  caught  his  neighbour's  eye,  he 
looked  away.  After  allowing  the  silence  to  continue 
for  a  minute,  which  seemed  like  an  hour,  O'Neill  rose 
again. 

'  Does  anyone  now  second  Mr.  Walsh's  motion  ?' 

There  was  the  faintest  possible  emphasis  on  the 
word  '  now.' 

Walsh  himself  got  slowly,  as  if  by  painful  effort,  on 
to  his  feet. 

'  After  what  our  honoured  president  has  just  told 
us,'  he  said, '  I  should  like  to  withdraw  my—-—' 

Father  Fahy  sprang  up.  His  face  was  crimson  with 
passion.  His  hands  convulsively  gripped  the  back  of 
the  chair  in  front  of  him. 

'  I  second  the  motion,'  he  shouted.  '  I  denounce 
the  scheme  as  treachery ;  and  I  proclaim  the  author 
of  it,  whoever  he  may  be,  as  a  reptile  traitor  to  the 
people  of  Ireland.' 

There  was  a  horse  yell  from  the  audience.  Men 
leaped  to  their  feet,  and  clenched  fists  were  shaken 
in  the  air.  The  priest's  voice  was  drowned.  He 
scrambled  on  to  the  table  in  front  of  O'Neill,  and  stood 
above  the  crowd  with  outstretched  arms,  vociferating. 
There  was  a  sudden  sway  in  the  audience.  Someone 
crashed  against  the  table  and  upset  it  Father  Fahy 
fell  with  it.  In  a  moment  he  was  up  again.  His 
cheek  was  cut,  and  the  blood  flowed  down  into  his 
mouth  as  he  gasped  for  breath.  The  tumult  ceased 


THE  SEETHING  POT  143 

instantly,  and  men  drew  back  from  him  half 
frightened. 

'  I  am  afraid,1  said  John  O'Neill,  '  that  Father  Fahy 
has  hurt  himself.  We  shall  be  deprived  of  the  rest  of 
his,  no  doubt,  interesting  speech.'  The  ghost  of  a  smile 
hovered  round  his  lips  as  he  watched  his  adversary 
spitting  out  the  blood,  and  he  added :  '  If  the  table 
had  been  stronger,  the  speech  might  have  been 
longer.' 

The  priest's  position  was  sufficiently  ridiculous,  and 
laughter,  of  a  kind,  follows  as  a  reaction  on  any  violent 
excitement.  Someone  giggled.  Father  Fahy  looked 
round  him.  Laughter,  half  suppressed  or  wholly 
uncontrolled,  was  on  every  face.  The  major  excom- 
munication which  his  Church  has  devised  for  the 
annihilation  of  obstinate  heretics  would  have  been 
too  gentle  a  form  of  words  to  express  what  he  felt. 
He  pushed  his  way  sullenly  from  the  room.  O'Neill 
remained  standing,  and  again  addressed  the  meeting : 
'  Before  I  put  to  the  meeting  the  motion  which  you 
have  heard  proposed  and  seconded,  I  should  like  to 
say  a  few  words  on  the  subject  myself.  You  want 
land.  Very  well.  Sir  Gerald  Geoghegan  offers  you 
land.  He  offers  it  on  certain  terms.  Are  they  fair  ? 
I  address  a  certain  number  of  shopkeepers.  When 
you  offer  your  goods  to  the  public,  you  expect  to  be 
paid  for  them.  I  also  address  farmers.  When  you 
give  up  a  piece  of  land,  you  expect  to  be  paid  for  your 
interest  in  it.  That  is  fair.  Sir  Gerald  Geoghegan 
expects  to  be  paid,  too,  in  exactly  the  same  way 


144  THE  SEETHING  POT 

What  is  fair  in  one  case  is  fair  in  the  other.  The 
only  difference  is  that  if  you  sell  a  thing  you  expect  to 
handle  the  price.  Sir  Gerald  is  content  to  let  his 
money  lie  in  your  hands  at  an  extremely  low  rate  of 
interest.  There  is  no  trap  of  any  sort.  The  plan,  as 
I  told  you  before,  is  mine.  Is  it  likely  that  I  would 
join  a  landlord  in  setting  a  trap  for  you  ?  I  shall  now 
put  Mr.  Walsh's  motion  to  the  meeting.' 

Mr.  Walsh  rose  to  his  feet  and  requested  permission 
to  withdraw  his  motion.  No  one  offered  any 
objection. 

'  Very  well,'  said  O'Neill.  '  We  may,  then,  take  it 
for  granted  that  at  its  next  meeting  the  District 
Council  will  thank  Sir  Gerald  Geoghegan  for  his 
generous  response  to  their  request.' 

The  meeting  broke  up.  Excitement  and  cheering 
induce  thirst,  and  little  groups  of  men  made  their 
way  to  one  or  another  of  the  various  public- houses. 
John  O'Neill  beckoned  McCarty  to  come  to  him. 

'  Well  ?'  he  said,  and  then  waited.  The  apology  he 
seemed  to  expect  was  forthcoming. 

'  I'm  sorry,'  said  his  follower,  '  for  what  occurred 
at  the  meeting  to-day.  Of  course,  if  I'd  known  the 
scheme  was  yours  I  should  not  have  spoken  as 
I  did.' 

'  I  suppose  not,'  said  O'Neill.  '  Why  did  you  let 
the  priest  talk  you  over  ?  I've  repeatedly  told  you 
to  be  careful  about  allowing  yourself  to  be  Led  by  the 
nose  by  the  priests.  They  are  more  or  less  on  our 
side  now,  but  they  will  desert  us  when  it  comes 


THE  SEETHING  POT  145 

to  the  pinch.  The  Church  doesn't  want  an  inde- 
pendent Ireland.  It  gets  too  much  money  out  of 
England  to  want  to  cut  the  connection.' 

'  I'm  sorry,'  said  McCarty  ;  '  but  it's  all  right,  isn't 
it  ?  You  beat  Father  Fahy  to-day.' 

'  Yes,  I  beat  him  to-day.  But  shall  I  always  be  able 
to  beat  him  ?' 

'  I  don't  know.  The  priests  distrust  you.  For  one 
thing,  they  don't  like  your  being  a  Protestant.  Then, 
they  think  you've  got  too  much  power.  I  think  they 
would  like  to  beat  you.' 

'  I  know  all  that.  But  is  there  anything  else-^ 
anything  new  that  I  ought  to  know  ?' 

'  Well,  Father  Fahy  has  sounded  me  two  or  three 
times  lately.  The  last  time  was  just  after  the 
Bishop's  visit  here.  He  asked  me  what  you  were 
going  to  do  when  the  question  of  the  immigration  of 
the  foreign  Religious  Orders  came  up  next  session.' 

'Ah!  Now,  what  might  Father  Fahy  and  his 
Bishop  think  about  that  matter  ?' 

'  He  says  that  it's  a  Church  question,  and  that 
the  Irish  party  are  bound  to  support  the  Govern^ 
ment.' 

'  Thank  you/  said  O'Neill.  '  I  think  I'll  wish  you 
good-bye  now.  If  Father  Fahy  asks  you  again  what 
I'm  going  to  do,  you'll  be  able  to  say,  with  perfect 
truthfulness,  that  you  haven't  the  slightest  idea.' 

Father  Fahy  was  no  more  inclined  than  O'Neill  to 
regard  his  defeat  as  final  and  decisive.  He  was  well 
aware  that  at  various  moments  in  recent  Irish  history 

10 


146  THE  SEETHING  POT 

his  Order  had  been  extremely  unpopular.  As  a  young 
man  he  had  seen  a  too  energetic  parish  priest  dragged 
by  his  heels  down  the  street  of  a  Connaught  town. 
He  himself  had  once  had  blood  drawn  from  his  nose 
by  the  fist  of  a  Poor  Law  Guardian,  the  matter  in 
dispute  being  nothing  more  important  than  the 
election  of  a  dispensary  doctor.  On  every  occasion, 
however,  on  which  it  had  arisen  the  anti-clerical 
feeling  had  rapidly  subsided';  and  experience  con- 
firmed his  conviction  that  there  was  no  power  in 
Ireland  able  to  seriously  threaten  that  of  the 
Church. 

Still,  the  present  crisis  demanded  prompt  action. 
He  washed  his  face,  brushed  the  dust  off  his  coat, 
took  his  hat,  and  started  by  the  next  train  to  consult 
his  Bishop. 

As  he  told  his  story,  the  old  ecclesiastic  sat  in 
silence.  His  forehead  gathered  into  deeper  and 
deeper  wrinkles  while  he  listened.  His  thick  grizzled 
eyebrows  came  almost  to  meet  each  other  across  his 
forehead,  and  hung  heavily  over  his  eyes.  His  great 
shapeless  lower  lip  pushed  itself  further  and  further 
out,  until  the  few  jagged  teeth  which  still  remained 
behind  it  became  visible. 

'  You  are  too  hot-headed,  Father  Fahy,'  he  said, 
when  the  story  ended.  '  I  sent  you  to  Clogher 
because  I  thought  there  was  a  reasonable  prospect  of 
your  keeping  quiet  there.  Now  you  have  got  into 
a  fresh  row.  Do  you  want  to  be  banished  to  one  of 
the  islands  ?' 


THE  SEETHING  POT  147 

'I  could  not  help  myself,'  said  Father  Fahy. 
'The  whole  thing  was  sprung  on  me  suddenly.  I 
made  sure  I  should  carry  the  people  with  me  as 
usual.' 

'Is  John  O'Neill  generally  present  at  your  meet- 
ings ?' 

'  I  never  saw  him  at  one  before.' 

'  Don't  you  think  you  ought  to  have  been  cautious 
when  you  did  see  him  ?  Besides,  you  ought  to  have 
realized  that  the  scheme  you  have  described  to  me 
couldn't  possibly  have  been  the  work  of  a  man  like 
Mr.  Godfrey.  It  was  surely  obvious  that  you  ought 
to  have  waited  until  you  knew  what  influences  were 
at  work.' 

'  But,'  said  the  priest,  '  if  I  had  done  nothing,  the 
scheme  would  have  been  accepted  by  the  League,  and 
then  my  poor  people  would  have  lost  the  chance  of 
getting  a  bit  of  land  they  could  live  on.  You  know, 
my  lord,  the  well-off  men  and  the  shopkeepers  would 
have  snatched  it  all  up.  And  my  poor  people — oh, 
if  you  could  see  them !  But,  sure,  you  know  as  well 
as  I  do  how  very  poor  they  are,  and  the  way  the  boys 
and  girls  are  going  off,  the  very  best  of  them.  And 
who  is  to  blame  them  ?  Look  at  the  life  they  lead  at 
home  here  on  the  bogs  and  in  the  cabins.' 

The  Bishop's  face  softened. 

'  I'm  not  blaming  you,'  he  said,  '  for  opposing  the 
scheme.  A  priest's  first  duty  is  to  the  poorest  of  his 
flock,  and  I'll  say  this  for  you,  you  have  always  had 
a  heart  for  the  poor.  But  you  are  far  too  hot-headed. 

10—2 


148  THE  SEETHING  POT 

There  are  more  ways  of  wrecking  a  thing  you  don't 
like  than  flying  straight  in  the  face 'of  it.  Tell  me, 
what  sort  of  man  is  this  Sir  Gerald  Geoghegan  ?  He 
doesn't  seem  to  be  the  common  type  of  Protestant 
Tory.  Most  of  them  would  see  their  estates,  their 
tenants,  and  themselves,  go  to  perdition  before  they 
would  take  advice  from  John  O'Neill.' 

'I  don't  know  much  about  him,'  said  the  priest. 

'  Don't  you  think  you  ought  to  ?' 

'  It  is  very  hard  to  find  out  anything,'  said  Father 
Fahy.  '  His  servants  are  nearly  all  Protestants.' 

'  I  didn't  ask  you  to  come  here  with  a  letter  from 
a  kitchen-maid  in  your  pocket.  I  don't  inquire  about 
the  sources  of  your  information,  but  I  expect  you  to 
know  the  people  in  your  parish.  Now,  I'll  tell  you 
something  about  this  Sir  Gerald  Geoghegan.  He  is 
the  son  of  Gerald  Geoghegan  the  Young  Ireland 
leader,  the  man  who  headed  the  rebellion  in  '48.  He 
may  turn  out  to  be  the  most  dangerous  kind  of  man 
in  Ireland  to-day.  Of  course,  I  know  nothing  about 
him  personally.  He  may  be  a  fool  or  a  coward ;  but 
if  he  is  the  kind  of  man  his  father  was,  and  if  he 
makes  friends  with  John  O'Neill,  it  may  be  a  serious 
matter.' 

'  I  shall  try  and  find  out  about  him.' 

'  There  is  another  matter,'  said  the  Bishop :  '  I 
want  to  know  how  O'Neill  stands  with  his  followers.' 

'I  tried  to  find  that  out.  They  seem  to  be  very 
loyal  to  him.  I  don't  know  why,  for  he  bullies  them 
and  treats  them  like  dogs.' 


THE  SEETHING  POT  149 

*  O'Neill  is  a  great  man,'  said  the  Bishop.  '  He  is 
a  man  that  the  Church  will  have  to  reckon  with  some 
time,  and  I  think  the  day  is  getting  very  near.  Did 
you  succeed  in  getting  any  information  as  to  how  he 
is  going  to  act  in  this  agitation  about  the  immigration 
of  the  foreign  Religious  Orders  ?  Will  he  support  the 
Government  if  we  ask  him  to  ?  Or  will  he  make 
use  of  this  ridiculous  "  No  Popery  "  cry  that  England 
seems  likely  to  go  mad  over  ?' 

'  No  one  seems  to  know  what  line  he  will  take,'  said 
the  priest. 

The  Bishop  frowned  heavily. 

'It  would  be  better/  he  said,  'if  we  knew.  We 
may  have  to  fight  him  over  this  very  question.  Now 
I  dare  say  you  ought  to  be  going,  if  you  want  to  catch 
your  train.  I'll  just  give  you  my  advice  before  you 
leave.  You  had  better  lie  up  for  a  week  and  nurse 
that  cut  on  your  face.  It  looks  painful,  and  if  the 
people  think  they  have  really  hurt  you,  they  will  be 
sorry  all  the  sooner  for  to-day's  proceedings.  Watch 
John  O'Neill  and  watch  this  new  landlord.  I  must 
know  what  kind  of  man  he  is,  and  whether  he  is  going 
to  join  O'Neill's  political  party.  You  can  manipulate 
the  League  a  little — quietly,  you  know.  Pass  a  few 
resolutions  about  landlords  in  general,  but  leave  Sir 
Gerald  and  his  plan  alone  for  the  present.  If  O'Neill 
and  Sir  Gerald  make  friends,  you  may  be  able  to 
suggest  that  O'Neill  is  going  over  to  the  landlord. 
They  won't  believe  you  at  first,  but  there  will  be  no 
harm  done  by  the  suggestion.  I  think  that's  all.' 


150  THE  SEETHING  POT 

Father  Fahy  knelt  for  the  Bishop's  blessing.  When 
he  rose,  he  said : 

'  But  shall  I  be  able  to  get  that  land  for  my  poor 
people  ?' 

'We  shall  see  about  that,'  said  the  Bishop 
'  There  is  a  good  deal  to  happen  before  that  business 
is  settled.' 


CHAPTER  XII 

SIR  GERALD  had  been  fairly  warned  of  the  conse- 
quences of  any  association  with  John  O'Neill.  Lord 
Clonfert's  tone  when  the  Nationalist  leader  was 
mentioned,  O'Hara's  occasional  hints,  and  O'Neill's 
own  blunt  statement  ought  to  have  prepared  him  for 
what  would  happen.  Yet  the  reception  of  the  story 
of  Mr.  Godfrey's  resignation  came  on  him  as  a 
surprise. 

He  found  himself  suddenly  hi  the  position  of  a 
stranger  of  very  doubtful  reputation  among  the 
people  he  had  begun  to  make  friends  with.  The 
smaller  local  gentry,  who  had  welcomed  him  at  first 
as  at  least  a  social  acquisition,  became  shy  of  him. 
He  detected  a  difference  even  in  the  manner  of  the 
bank-manager,  though  the  desire  not  to  offend  a 
wealthy  customer  kept  his  feelings  within  certain 
bounds. 

There  was  a  double  reason  for  the  strong  hostility 
of  the  upper  classes.  Mr.  Godfrey  was  well  known 
and  personally  liked  by  everyone.  He  was  an  old 
and  valued  friend  of  many.  His  dismissal — for  no  one 
spoke  of  it  as  a  resignation — was  resented  as  an  act  of 

161 


152  THE  SEETHING  POT 

high-handed  injustice.  Behind  this  personal  feeling 
lay  the  impenetrable  mass  of  prejudice  against  national 
sentiment  of  any  kind,  which  is  as  strong  as  religious 
faith  in  a  certain  class  of  Irish  people.  Indeed,  it  is 
in  reality  stronger.  Sir  Gerald  would  have  been  easily 
excused  if  he  had  appeared  publicly  in  a  state  of 
intoxication.  He  would  have  been  forgiven  ultimately 
for  a  series  of  immoralities.  Even  an  accusation  of 
dishonesty  would  not  have  excluded  him  from  what 
is  called  society.  Such  sins  are  forgiven  every  day 
to  men  who  are  true  to  the  traditions  of  their  class. 
The  one  unforgivable  person  is  the  political  renegade, 
the  gentleman  who  has  friendly  dealings  with  the 
Nationalists.  The  strength  of  the  prejudice  has 
something  noble  in  it.  It  is  the  protest  of  a  class 
which  is  being  driven  against  the  wall,  against  what 
appears  to  be  base  desertion  to  the  ranks  of  a  con- 
quering majority. 

Sir  Gerald  was  at  first  simply  bewildered  by  the 
change  in  his  social  position.  He  tried,  as  long  as 
O'Hara  was  with  him,  to  laugh  at  the  snubs  he 
received.  As  soon  as  the  editor  left  him  he  began 
t-o  feel  his  loneliness  acutely.  Even  his  own  servants 
appeared  to  perform  their  duties  with  a  certain  air 
of  protest.  His  visits  to  Clonfert  Castle  were  most 
unsatisfactory.  His  position  as  Hester's  future 
husband  had  been  distinctly  and  gladly  recognised 
before  the  trouble  with  Mr.  Godfrey,  but  the  moment 
that  story  became  public  property  he  found  a  change 
in  his  reception.  Lord  Clonfert  was  obviously  nervous 


THE  SEETHING  POT  153 

and  uncomfortable  in  his  company.  He  talked  in- 
cessantly on  uninteresting  topics,  and  fenced  off  Sir 
Gerald's  half-hearted  attempts  to  bring  things  to 
some  kind  of  explanation.  Lady  Clonfert  was  frigidly 
polite,  but  extremely  distant  in  her  manner.  She 
ignored  Sir  Gerald's  attempts  to  get  back  on  to  the 
old  footing  of  familiarity.  She  decisively  refused  an 
invitation  to  inspect  some  improvements  in  Clogher 
House.  When  he  asked  to  see  Hester,  he  was  told 
that  she  had  left  home  in  order  to  pay  a  long-promised 
visit  to  an  aunt  in  England.  Sir  Gerald  was  perfectly 
well  aware  that  no  such  visit  had  been  in  contempla- 
tion, and  resented  what  seemed  like  hustling  the  girl 
out  of  his  reach.  He  gave  up  any  direct  attempt 
to  arrive  at  an  understanding  of  his  position,  and 
ceased  to  visit  Clonfert  Castle.  He  devised  a  plan 
of  using  Canon  Johnston  as  an  intermediary,  and 
called  on  the  clergyman  for  the  purpose  of  opening 
negotiations.  The  attempt  was  a  complete  failure. 
The  Canon  was  so  obviously  ill  at  ease  during  the 
visit  that  Sir  Gerald  was  glad  to  get  out  of  the 
rectory. 

After  awhile  his  first  bewilderment  gave  way  to  a 
feeling  of  annoyance.  His  total  inability  to  explain 
his  position  to  anyone  irritated  him.  He  began  to 
think  that,  since  he  was  condemned  unheard,  he 
might  as  well  do  something  to  justify  his  sentence. 
He  called  again  upon  John  O'Neill,  and  asked  his 
advice  about  the  appointment  of  a  successor  to 
Mr.  Godfrey.  A  series  of  consultations  followed. 


154  THE  SEETHING  POT 

Sir  Gerald  was  agreeably  surprised  at  the  readiness 
with  which  O'Neill  threw  himself  into  the  task  of 
finding  the  right  kind  of  man. 

1  You  see,'  said  O'Neill,  '  the  position  is  almost 
unprecedented.  You  want  your  estate  managed  in 
the  interests  of  two  parties  who  for  a  long  time  past 
have  regarded  each  other  as  natural  enemies.  You 
want  to  secure  your  own  rights,  and  at  the  same  time 
to  help  your  tenants  to  live.  Now,  it  seems  to  me 
perfectly  hopeless  to  get  a  trained  land-agent.  The 
traditions  of  his  profession  would  be  too  strong  for 
him.  He  could  not  possibly  do  anything  but  oppose 
you.  In  the  same  way,  any  political  friend  of  mine, 
however  good  a  business  man  he  might  be,  would  be 
equally  hopeless.  I  could  only  recommend  a  man 
who  has  been  fighting  against  your  class  for  years, 
and  is  fully  convinced  that  the  sooner  landlordism  is 
done  with  the  better  for  Ireland.  You  wouldn't  trust 
such  a  man,  and  I  don't  blame  you.  He  would  not 
be  trustworthy.' 

In  the  end  the  services  of  a  Mr.  McNeece  were 
secured.  He  was  a  young  man,  an  Ulster  Scot,  a 
junior  partner  in  a  firm  of  chartered  accountants. 
There  were  certain  drawbacks  to  his  appointment. 
He  knew  absolutely  nothing  about  land.  It  became 
necessary  at  once  to  employ  a  land-surveyor  for  the 
division  of  the  grazing-lands.  At  the  same  time  there 
were  some  definite  advantages  about  Mr.  McNeece. 
He  approached  his  new  work  with  a  perfectly  open 
mind.  He  was  fettered  with  no  prejudices  against 


THE  SEETHING  POT  155 

methods  which  had  acquired  a  certain  political  colour- 
ing. He  neither  distrusted  one  man  because  he  was 
a  Nationalist,  nor  had  confidence  in  another  because 
he  had  been  loyal  through  the  '  bad  times.'  He  had 
no  idea  of  regarding  himself  as  a  kind  of  satrap 
dealing  out,  so  far  as  possible,  rewards  and  punish- 
ments. For  him  the  estate  was  a  business  concern, 
and  he  the  financial  manager. 

Unfortunately  for  Sir  Gerald,  he  was  quite  hopeless 
as  a  companion.  His  keen  Northern  accent  acted  like 
an  acid,  withering  the  incipient  shoots  of  conversation. 
He  had  no  interests  in  common  with  his  employer, 
nor  did  he  conceive  himself  to  have  any  personal 
relationship  with  Sir  Gerald.  Even  his  politics  were 
too  hopelessly  remote  to  admit  of  discussion.  He 
might  have  been  at  home  among  English  Radicals  of 
the  Nonconformist  type.  In  Connaught  his  theories 
were  as  absurd  as  if  they  had  reference  to  a  society 
in  some  other  planet.  Sir  Gerald  received  a  succession 
of  mild  shocks  as  he  discovered  that  his  agent  was 
a  fanatical  teetotaler,  an  anti-vaccinationist,  and  the 
secretary  of  an  anti-tobacco  league.  After  that  he 
gave  up  trying  to  make  a  friend  of  him.  It  was 
clearly  impossible  to  ask  a  man  to  dinner  who  scowled 
at  a  claret-jug,  and  lectured  on  heart  disease  when  a 
cigarette  was  offered  him.  In  the  office  McNeece  was 
delightful.  He  grasped  the  principle  of  O'Neill's 
scheme  at  once,  and  set  to  work  vigorously  on  the 
details. 

It  was  quite  natural  that  the  consultations  with 


156  THE  SEETHING  POT 

O'Neill  which  preceded  Mr.  McNeece's  arrival  should 
continue,  as  points  in  the  carrying  out  of  the  scheme 
required  discussion.  Sir  Gerald  got  into  the  habit 
of  going  to  see  O'Neill  two  or  three  times  every  week. 
After  awhile  he  was  introduced  to  Mrs.  O'Neill,  and 
his  visits  gradually  ceased  to  have  even  the  excuse 
of  business.  He  found  it  pleasanter,  as  the  autumn 
evenings  shortened,  to  sit  chatting  over  a  cup  of  tea 
in  the  O'Neills'  drawing-room  than  to  yawn  himself 
weary  in  the  great  library  of  Clogher  House.  O'Neill's 
strength  of  character  and  directness  of  purpose  began 
to  exercise  a  fascination  on  the  young  man.  At  first 
it  seemed  to  him  that  Mrs.  O'Neill  was  a  mere  cipher 
in  the  household,  a  sweet  and  gentle  shadow  of  her 
husband.  Gradually  he  discovered  in  her,  too,  a 
reserve  of  strength — less  obtrusive  than  her  husband's, 
less  boisterous  in  its  expression,  but  at  times  easily 
seen.  O'Neill  himself  treated  her  opinions  with 
deference  when  she  expressed  them.  More  than 
once  he  apologized,  in  obedience  to  her  looks  rather 
than  her  words,  for  some  peculiarly  outrageous 
paradox. 

Sir  Gerald  passed  through  three  stages  in  becoming 
her  friend.  At  first  he  ignored  her.  Next  he  rather 
feared  her  as  someone  whose  mental  habits  were 
strange  to  him.  Finally  he  reverenced  her,  as  one 
whom  it  was  wise  to  lean  upon  and  trust.  After 
awhile  he  came  to  be  uncertain  whether  he  was  more 
attracted  by  O'Neill's  militant  boldness  and  force,  or 
his  wife's  sympathy  and  quiet  strength. 


THE  SEETHING  POT  157 

At  first  O'Neill  avoided  politics  in  the  long  talks 
that  the  three  had  together.  It  was  not  possible  for 
him  to  do  so  for  very  long ;  for  politics,  or  rather 
Irish  politics,  were  the  only  subject  which  really 
interested  him.  His  life  centred  in  the  struggle  which 
the  Irish  were  making  in  the  House  of  Commons. 
His  mind  was  continually  at  work  on  the  possibilities 
of  bullying  or  cajoling  one  or  other  of  the  English 
parties.  Everything  was  subordinated  to  the  desire 
of  obtaining  a  practically  independent  Irish  Parlia- 
ment. The  Land  Question,  which  seemed  to  bulk  so 
large  in  Irish  life,  he  regarded  as  of  only  second-rate 
importance.  He  used  it  as  a  means  of  keeping  up 
the  enthusiasm  of  the  mass  of  the  Irish  voters.  It 
proved,  too,  a  good  way  of  weakening,  and  finally 
destroying,  the  landlord  class,  whom  he  regarded  as 
irredeemably  loyal  to  the  English  connection.  Imperial 
politics  only  interested  him  in  so  far  as  they  afforded 
occasional  opportunities  for  embarrassing  the  Govern- 
ment which  happened  to  be  in  power.  For  the  rights 
or  wrongs  of  the  petty  wars  which  flared  up  at 
intervals  along  the  borders  of  the  Empire  he  cared 
absolutely  nothing.  He  assumed  as  a  working 
hypothesis  that  England  was  invariably  in  the 
wrong.  He  expressed  a  deep  contempt  for  that  whole 
region  of  domestic  politics  in  which  philanthropy 
and  socialistic  speculation  try  to  find  legislative 
expression.  The  working  man  he  described  as  a 
'fatted  fraud.'  The  whole  machinery  of  national 
education,  from  board  schools  to  free  libraries, 


158  THE  SEETHING  POT 

was  'an  attempt  to  teach  pigs  to  talk  instead  of 
grunt' 

He  believed  that  a  really  united  Ireland  would 
be  able  to  force  any  measure  of  independence  from 
England. 

'  I  have  almost  got  what  I  want,'  he  said  one  day. 
'  The  landlord  party  in  a  few  years  will  be  impotent 
outside  the  House  of  Lords,  and  unpopular  there. 
The  Protestant  farmers  in  the  North  are  coming  round 
to  us.  Their  members  are  either  afraid  to  move  or 
very  insecure  in  their  seats.  The  success  of  the  land 
movement  is  making  itself  felt.  The  Ulster  Protestant 
makes  a  lot  of  noise  with  drums,  and  calls  it  loyalty, 
but  he  is  really  just  as  anxious  as  anybody  else  to  get 
his  rent  reduced.' 

The  view  which  he  got  of  O'Neill's  political 
schemes  was  intensely  interesting  and  exciting  to 
Sir  Gerald. 

'  Ah !'  he  said  once,  *  it  must  be  a  grand  thing 
to  be  playing  a  great  game  like  that,  with  Irish 
independence  as  the  prize.  I  wish  I  was  in  it  with 
you.' 

'  Do  you  ?'  said  O'Neill,  looking  at  him  curiously. 
'Don't  be  too  sure.  There  is  another  side  to  the 
picture,  a  behind-the-scenes  view  of  the  play  that  you 
have  not  seen  yet.  I  have  Ireland  at  my  back  to-day, 
but  I  can't  keep  it.  There  is  a  power  in  Ireland 
greater  than  mine.  In  the  end  the  Roman  Church 
will  beat  me.  I  may  hold  out  long  enough  to  snatch 
a  Parliament  for  Ireland  out  of  the  fire,  but  if  I  don't 


THE  SEETHING  POT  159 

do  it  at  once  I  shan't  do  it  at  all  They  can  beat  me 
in  the  end.' 

'  I  don't  love  the  priests,'  said  Sir  Gerald ;  '  I  was 
not  brought  up  to  love  them.  It  was  the  priests  who 
betrayed  my  father.  But  for  them,  he  might  have 
made  a  fight  for  it.' 

'  I  think,'  said  O'Neill,  '  that  they  mean  to  wreck 
me  now  if  they  can.  You  see,  things  are  very  critical. 
The  Government  can  hardly  weather  this  storm  about 
the  foreign  Religious  Orders  without  the  help  of  my 
eighty  votes.  They  have  bought  the  priests  already, 
and  they  are  prepared  to  bid  a  little  extra  to  make 
sure  of  me.  The  priest's  price  is  cash  down,  grants 
for  colleges,  schools,  universities,  and  so  forth.  The 
Government  are  pledged  to  pay  it.  They  will  offer 
me  another  Land  Act,  but  it  won't  do.  My  price  is  an 
Irish  Parliament.  If  the  Government  won't  promise 
it — and  I  don't  see  how  they  can — the  Opposition  will. 
My  game  is  to  wreck  the  Government.' 

'Are  you  sure  of  your  men?'  asked  Mrs.  O'Neill. 

'I'm  as  sure  as  I  can  be  of  a  set  of  men  half  of 
whom  still  believe  that  a  priest  can  send  them  to  hell 
if  he  likes.  The  real  tug  will  come  at  the  General 
Election.  The  best  of  my  men  may  be  beaten  at 
the  poll  if  the  priests  throw  themselves  into  the 
struggle.' 

'  And  then  ? '  asked  Sir  Gerald. 

'  Then !  Oh,  then  there  will  be  no  Irish  Party 
strong  enough  to  do  anything.  We  shall  have  another 
half -century  of  concessions  to  what  are  supposed  to  be 


160  THE  SEETHING  POT 

Irish  demands,  and  at  the  end  of  that  time  you  will 
have  a  spectacle  unique  in  Europe — a  country  which 
exists  solely  for  the  purpose  of  supporting  and  enrich- 
ing a  Church.' 

'  And  all  that  is  to  happen,'  said  Mrs.  O'Neill, 
smiling,  'just  because  you  are  left  out  in  the  cold. 
No  wonder  people  call  you  arrogant !  Do  you  think 
you  are  the  only  man  in  the  world  who  can  help 
Ireland?' 

'  I  know  I  am.  You  see,'  he  went  on,  turning  to 
Sir  Gerald,  '  the  kind  of  thing  a  man  is  driven  into 
saying  when  his  wife  takes  to  sneering  at  him.  By 
the  way,  Sir  Gerald,  I  never  congratulated  you  on 
your  engagement.  I  hear  Miss  Carew  is  charming. 
When  is  the  wedding  to  be?' 

'  I  don't  know,'  said  Sir  Gerald,  and  something  in 
his  tone  caught  Mrs.  O'Neill's  attention. 

'  I  hope,'  she  said, '  that  nothing  has  gone  wrong. 
Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  speak  about  it.' 

'  I  don't  mind  telling  you  in  the  least.  The  fact 
is,  I  don't  know  where  I  stand.  It  was  all  right 
until  that  business  of  Godfrey's  resignation,  but  ever 
since  then  they  have  been  as  cold  as  ice  to  me — 
Lord  and  Lady  Clonfert,  I  mean :  Hester  herself  is 
away.' 

'  Have  you  written  to  her  or  heard  from  her  ? '  asked 
Mrs.  O'Neill. 

'  No.  I  don't  know  where  she  is,  and  in  any  case  I 
should  not  like  to  write  in  the  face  of  her  mother's 
evident  opposition.' 


THE  SEETHING  POT  161 

'  What  nonsense !'  said  O'Neill.  '  Find  out  at  once 
where  she  is,  and  write  to  her,  or,  better  still,  go  to 
her.' 

'  I  am  not  sure  that  I  should  be  justified  in  forcing 
her  in  that  sort  of  way.' 

'  Justified !'  said  O'Neill.  '  Man  alive !  what  d® 
you  mean  ?  Of  course  you  are  justified  in  getting  her 
if  she  will  go  with  you.' 

'  I  have  a  feeling,'  said  Sir  Gerald,  '  that  it  woul<l 
not  be  honourable  to  chase  her  behind  her  mother's 
back.' 

'  I  don't  in  the  least  agree  with  you,'  said  O'NeilL 
'  What  do  you  suppose  is  honour  ?  It  is  the  reflex 
action  of  the  prejudices  of  our  birth  and  education. 
Look  here :  I  cross  my  legs  and  hit  my  knee — so.  Mj 
foot  jumps.  That's  because  I  am  a  tissue  of  nerves 
inside,  which  react  to  a  certain  stimulus  quite  apart 
from  my  will.  You'ld  call  me  a  fool  if  I  made  a  fetish 
of  my  foot. and  let  my  actions  be  guided  by  its  jumping 
more  or  less.  A  man's  mind  is  just  like  his  body.  It 
is  woven  through  with  prejudices.  They  come  to  us 
by  inheritance  and  education.  Something  excites  one 
of  them,  and  there  comes  a  jump,  like  the  jump  of  my 
foot.  You  call  it  a  feeling  of  honour,  and  refrain 
from  doing  something  you  want  to  do  because  of  it 
I  call  a  man  a  superstitious  fool  who  lets  himself  ba 
hampered  in  any  such  way.' 

'Now,'  said  his  wife,  'you  are  talking  nonsense, 
and  wicked  nonsense,  too.' 

'Well,'  said  O'Neill,  'do  you  talk  righteous  nonsense; 

11 


THE  SEETHING  POT 

but  don't,  for  goodness'  sake,  begin  to  talk  conventional 
sense.  You  must  remember  that  you  are  a  woman 
who  has  lost  the  right  of  talking  sense  on  this  subject. 
Do  you  know,  Sir  Gerald,  that  my  wife  is  a  woman  of 
fortune,  and  that  I  have  been  living  on  her  ever  since 
we  were  married  ?  She  picked  me  up,  I  may  say,  out 
of  the  gutter.  If  she  talks  what  is  called  sense  to  me 
now  about  marriage,  I'll  be  forced  to  think  that  she 
is  sorry  for  marrying  me.' 

Mrs.  O'Neill  ignored  this  speech  altogether. 

'  I  don't  understand,'  she  said,  '  what  you  men  mean 
by  honour  in  these  things.  I  should  call  it  most 
dishonourable  to  leave  an  unfortunate  girl  in  a  state 
of  uncertainty  about  your  feelings  because  you  are 
afraid  of  what  her  father  will  say  about  you.' 

'  But  what  can  I  do  ?  She  has  gone  away,  and  I 
don't  know  where  she  is.' 

'  I  suppose,'  said  Mrs.  O'Neill,  '  she  won't  stay  away 
for  ever.  As  soon  as  ever  she  comes  home  you  ought 
to  see  her.  You  must  not  let  your  whole  life,  and,  what 
is  worse,  her  life,  be  soured  for  the  sake  of  drawing- 
room  manners.' 

'  Quite  so/  said  O'Neill.  '  You  say  the  mother  is 
cold  to  you.  See  whether  the  girl  is.  If  she  isn't,  it 
does  not  seem  to  me  to  matter  if  the  old  woman  hangs 
icicles  round  your  neck.' 

'  Remember,'  said  Mrs.  O'Neill,  '  your  first  duty  is 
to  Miss  Carew.  It's  wicked  to  let  your  sense  of  honour 
become  an  excuse  for  torturing  her.' 

'That's  just  what  I  said,  only  better  expressed,' 


THE  SEETHING  POT  163 

said  O'Neill ;  '  but  when  I  said  it  you  called  it  wicked 
nonsense.' 

'  It's  quite  different.  You  advised  him  to  do  what 
you  both  thought  was  dishonourable.  I  advise  him 
to  do  what  we  all  three  know  to  be  right1 


11—! 


CHAPTER  XIII 

SIR  GERALD  made  up  his  mind  to  follow  Mrs.  O'Neill's 
advice.  Fortune  favoured  him,  for  he  met  Hester 
Carew  outside  his  own  demesne  gate  on  the  very 
day  of  her  return  home.  She  was  driving  her  own 
pony  out  from  the  station.  She  flushed  when  she 
saw  him,  and  it  seemed  as  if  she  meant  to  drive 
past.  Sir  Gerald  held  up  his  hand  and  stopped 
her. 

'  Hester,'  he  said,  '  I  want  to  speak  to  you.' 

She  got  out  of  the  trap  and  stood  beside  him. 

'  Wait  where  you  are,'  he  said  to  the  groom,  who 
had  gone  to  the  pony's  head.  '  Miss  Carew  will  be 
back  in  a  few  minutes.' 

He  took  her  hand,  and  led  her,  without  speaking, 
through  the  gates  and  along  the  drive  under  the 
lime-trees. 

I  want  to  ask  you,"  he  said  at  last,  '  if  you  will  be 
my  wife.' 

'  How  can  you  ask  such  a  thing  ?'  she  said.  '  Did 
I  not  answer  you  once  before  ?' 

A  great  feeling  of  relief  came  over  him.  He  no 
longer  had  any  real  doubt  that  she  meant  to  be  true 

164 


THE  SEETHING  POT  165 

to  him.  Yet,  because  his  experience  had  left  him 
somewhat  bitter,  he  went  on : 

'  It  was  different  then.  Then  I  was  a  gentleman. 
Do  you  know  what  I  am  now  ?  I  am  a  friend  of 
John  O'Neill's.  I  believe  in  him  and  in  his  politics. 
I'm  not  fit  now  to  associate  with  respectable  people.' 

'  I  told  you  once,'  she  said, '  that  I  loved  you.  Do 
you  think  it  makes  any  matter  to  me  who  your 
friends  are  ?  Besides,  I  told  you  that  I  loved  Ireland, 
Do  you  think  that  I  would  give  you  up  because  you 
are  going  to  work  for  her  ?  Oh,  Gerald,  if  it  were 
possible,  I  would  love  you  all  the  more  for  that !' 

For  some  time  they  wandered  on,  still  hand  in 
hand.  They  left  the  road  without  noticing  what  they 
did,  and  now  their  feet  brushed  through  the  tattered 
leaves  that  covered  the  ground. 

'  But  your  father  and  mother,  Hester  ?' 

'  Yes,'  she  said,  '  they  will  be  angry.' 

'  They  are  angry  already,'  he  said,  '  and  they  don't 
know  half  my  wickedness.'  He  could  afford  to  smile 
now  at  the  recollection  of  his  last  reception  at 
Clonfert  Castle.  '  They  only  know  about  Mr.  God- 
frey's resignation.  What  will  they  think  when  they 
hear  that  I  have  gone  over  to  the  enemy  alto- 
gether ?' 

'  It  will  be  most  unpleasant,'  said  Hester — '  in  fact, 
it  will  be  terrible.  You  see,  mother  always  said  you 
must  be  shown  your  mistake.  She  said  that  if  we 
were  firm  you  would  come  to  understand  how  badly 
you  had  behaved.  Nothing  more  was  to  be  said 


166  THE  SEETHING  POT 

about  our  engagement  until  you  had  shown  that  you 
were  sorry.' 

'  I  see.  I  was  to  be  suitably  punished  until  I 
turned  into  a  repentant  prodigal  son.  Then  she 
would  have  got  out  the  best  robe  and  put  it  on  me, 
and  prepared  a  fatted  wedding-cake.  Unfortunately, 
the  parable  does  not  work  out  hi  my  case.  My 
deadliest  offence  is  that  I  am  arising  and  going  back 
to  my  father.  It  is  "  father,"  you  know,  and  not 
"  prospective  mother-in-law,"  in  the  original.1 

'I  don't  know  what  on  earth  will  happen,'  said 
Hester,  '  but  I  don't  care.  I  know  what  I  mean  to 
do,  whatever  they  say.  But  oh,  Gerald,  why  did  you 
leave  me  so  long  without  a  word  from  you  ?  I 
thought — no,  I  never  thought  you  did  not  love  me ; 
but  I  thought  you  were  afraid.' 

'So  I  was,  just  afraid,'  said  Sir  Gerald.  'Now 
you  know  the  worst  of  it.  I  was  frightened  of  a  silly 
shadow,  but  I  know  better  now.' 

Again  they  walked  on  together  in  silence.  Sud- 
denly Sir  Gerald  stopped,  ler  go  her  hand,  and  faced 
her. 

'  Hester,  we  have  got  to  do  something.  We 
have  got  to  make  things  clear  to  your  father  and 
mother.' 

'  Yes,'  she  said  doubtfully, '  I  suppose  we  must.  I 
rather  dread  it,  though.  You  know  even  father  feels 
strongly  about  John  O'Neill  Still,  we  might  talk 
him  over  after  awhile.  But  mother ' 

Her  pause  was  eloquent. 


THE  SEETHING  POT  167 

'  There's  no  use  funking,'  said  he.  '  It's  better  to 
go  at  it  straight  while  our  courage  is  hot.' 

'  But  mine  isn't  the  least  hot.  It  is  very  cold 
indeed,  what  there  is  of  it,  and  there's  not  much.' 

'  I  propose  that  you  drive  me  out  with  you  now,1 
said  he. 

'  Oh,  Gerald,  must  we  ?  Couldn't  you  write  a  letter 
or  something  ?' 

'  That  would  only  make  things  worse.  Far  better 
have  it  out  face  to  face.  I  shall  ask  to  see  Lord 
Clonfert  on  business,  and  go  into  the  library.' 

'  How  nice !  And  I  suppose  I  shall  be  settling  it 
with  mother  in  the  meantime.  Now,  suppose  I  ask 
to  see  Lord  Clonfert  on  business,  and  you  go  up  to 
the  drawing-room  and  explain  things  to  mother  till 
I  have  finished.  How  would  that  do  ?' 

'I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do,'  said  Sir  Gerald, 
'  You  drive  me  up  to  the  turn  to  the  stables.  I'll  go 
straight  to  the  house.  You  can  watch  them  groom 
the  pony,  and  come  up  when  it  is  all  over/ 

'  I  don't  see,'  said  Hester,  '  why  I  should  not  drive 
straight  home  now.  You  can  get  out  one  of  your  own 
horses  and  follow  me.  That  will  give  me  time  to  get 
out  of  the  way  before  you  arrive.  I  shall  not  say 
anything  beforehand  to  spoil  your  fun.' 

'  But,  Hester,  I  haven't  seen  you  for  so  long,  and 
I  should  like  the  drive  with  you.  Nothing  but  having 
you  beside  me  will  keep  my  courage  up  to  boiling- 
point.' 

'  Now  don't  get  silly  !    This  is  serious  business.' 


168  THE  SEETHING  POT 

In  the  end  he  got  his  way,  and  drove  beside  her  in 
the  pony-trap. 

Lord  Clonfert  was  at  home,  and  greeted  Sir  Gerald 
in  the  library  fussily  and  nervously. 

'  I  am  delighted  to  see  you,'  he  said  as  he  shook 
hands;  'but  don't  let  us  stay  here.  The  fire  is 
wretched,  and  you  must  he  cold  after  your  drive. 
There's  quite  a  nip  of  autumn  in  the  air,  isn't  there  ? 
Lady  Clonfert  is  sure  to  have  a  good  fire  in  the 
drawing-room.  She  is  expecting  Hester  home  to-day. 
Come  up  there.' 

By  this  time  he  had  made  his  way  back  to  the  door, 
and  stood  holding  it  open  for  Sir  Gerald. 

'  But  I  want  to  talk  to  you,  and  not  Lady  Clonfert. 
It  is  about  Hester  that  I  want  to  speak.' 

4  Oh,  well,'  said  Lord  Clonfert,  '  that's  all  the  more 
feason  for  joining  Lady  Clonfert.  Isn't  it  ?  She's 
Hester's  mother,  you  know.' 

Sir  Gerald  resigned  himself  to  the  inevitable. 

They  found  Lady  Clonfert  sitting  beside  the  promised 
fire  with  a  book  on  her  lap.  She  was  evidently  surprised, 
and  not  very  well  pleased,  at  seeing  Sir  Gerald.  Lord 
Clonfert  performed  a  sort  of  ceremony  of  introduction  : 

'  This  is  Sir  Gerald.  He  wants  to  speak  to  us 
about  Hester.  I  brought  him  up  here.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  he  ought  to  see  you  as  well  as  me.' 

Lady  Clonfert  bowed  coldly  and  severely.  Sir 
Gerald  braced  himself  for  the  effort  of  making  a 
plunge  into  his  subject.  The  interview  promised  to 
be  decidedly  unpleasant.  Apparently  Lord  Clonfert 


THE  SEETHING  POT  169 

felt  this,   too,  for  he  made   a    desperate  effort  to 
escape. 

'  I  have  just  mentioned  to  Sir  Gerald  that  we  are 
expecting  Hester  home  this  afternoon.  Perhaps  I 
had  better  go  and  look  out  for  her.  It  might  be 
unpleasant — I  mean  awkward — if  she  was  to  walk  in 
suddenly.  You  see,  Sir  Gerald  wants  to  talk  about 
her.' 

'  I  don't  see  the  least  necessity  for  you  to  go,'  said 
Lady  Clonfert.  '  I  shall  tell  Phillips  to  inform  her 
that  we  are  engaged.' 

She  rang  the  bell  as  she  spoke.  There  was  an 
interval  of  almost  unbroken  silence  before  the  arrival 
of  the  butler.  Lord  Clonfert  made  a  gallant  attempt 
at  conversation,  expressing  wonder  that  Hester  was 
so  late.  Neither  of  the  others  responded  to  him. 
Sir  Gerald  could  not,  because  he  knew  exactly  what 
had  happened  to  Hester.  Lady  Clonfert  would  not, 
because  she  meant  to  make  things  as  difficult  for  Sir 
Gerald  as  she  could.  At  length  the  butler  received 
his  message  for  Hester,  and  retired.  Sir  Gerald  felt 
that  the  moment  for  the  struggle  had  arrived.  He 
plunged  at  once  into  the  middle  of  the  business,  and 
made  straight  for  his  main  point. 

'  I  want  to  explain  myself,'  he  said,  '  and  make  my 
position  perfectly  clear.  When  I  was  staying  with 
you  a  few  weeks  ago,  I  had  no  strong  political  opinions 
of  any  kind.  Since  then  I  have  come  to  see  things 
clearly.  I  have  decided  to  attach  myself  to  Mr.  John 
O'Keill,  and  to  become  a  member  of  his  party.  I 


170  THE  SEETHING  POT 

want  to  know  whether  you  are  still  prepared  to  accept 
me  as  a  husband  for  your  daughter.' 

'  My  dear  Sir  Gerald,'  said  Lord  Clonfert,  'you  are 
surely  exaggerating.  It's  very  natural  that  you  should 
wish  to  guard  against  any  possibility  of  misunder- 
standing ;  it  is  most  creditable  to  you.  But  you  can't 
really  mean  that  you  intend  to  turn  Nationalist.' 

'  This,'  said  Lady  Clonfert,  '  is  very  much  what  I 
expected  to  hear.' 

'  Nonsense  !'  said  Lord  Clonfert.  '  I  mean  to  say, 
we  didn't  expect  to  hear  anything  of  the  sort.  Of 
course,  we  knew  that  you  had  consulted  that  scoundrel 
— that  is  to  say,  had  asked  John  O'Neill's  advice 
about  something  connected  with  the  estate — and  that 
Mr.  Godfrey  had  resigned  the  agency.  I'm  bound  to 
say  I  don't  see  how  he  could  have  done  anything  else. 

But  we  never  thought Surely  you  don't  mean 

to  say  you're  going  to  be  a  Nationalist  M.P.  ?' 

'  If  I'm  wanted,'  said  Sir  Gerald,  '  and  if  any 
constituency  elects  me,  I  shall  certainly  go  into 
Parliament.1 

'  We  cannot,'  said  Lady  Clonfert,  '  allow  our 
daughter  to  form  such  a  connection.' 

'No,'  said  Lord  Clonfert,  'we  really  can't.  You 
must  see  yourself  that  the  thing  is  impossible.  I'm 
exceedingly  sorry,  Sir  Gerald.  I  like  you  personally, 
and  in  many  ways  the  marriage  is  just  what  I  would 
desire.  Surely  you  can't  intend  to  go  on  with  this 
political' — he  meant  to  say  'fad,'  but  at  the  last 
moment  feebly  substituted  '  idea.' 


THE  SEETHING  POT  171 

'  I  am  very  sorry,  too,'  said  Sir  Gerald.  '  I  hate  to 
give  you  pain,  but  I  cannot  alter  my  convictions. 
You  know,  Lord  Clonfert ' — he  saw  the  uselessness  of 
making  this  appeal  to  Lady  Clonfert — '  that  a  man 
must  do  in  these  things  as  his  conscience  bids 
him.' 

It  was  Lady  Clonfert  who  answered  him. 

'  No  man's  conscience  can  lead  him  to  associate 
with  thieves  and  murderers.' 

Sir  Gerald  choked  down  with  difficulty  the  anger 
which  her  unreasonable  and  insulting  answer  roused 
in  him.  It  was  some  time  before  he  trusted  himself 
to  speak  again. 

'Have  you  considered,'  he  said  at  last,  'the  effect 
of  your  decision  on  Hester  ?  I  hope  it  is  not 
vanity  in  me  to  say  so,  but  I  believe  she  really 
loves  me.' 

'  Hester,'  said  Lady  Clonfert,  '  will  live  to  thank 
me  for  saving  her  from  the  degradation  you  propose 
for  her.' 

'I  shall  make  one  more  appeal  to  you,  Lady 
Clonfert,'  said  Sir  Gerald.  '  Are  you  prepared  to  put 
Hester,  and  yourself  too,  in  an  utterly  false  position 
before  the  world  by  refusing  your  consent  ?  For  I 
warn  you  fairly:  if  we  can't  get  your  consent,  we 
shall  marry  without  it.' 

'  I  think,'  said  Lady  Clonfert,  '  that  Hester  will  act 
in  accordance  with  my  wishes.' 

'  You  are  wrong.  I  saw  Hester  to-day,  and  talked 
the  matter  over  with  her.' 


172  THE  SEETHING  POT 

'  I  shall  see  Hester  this  evening,'  said  Lady 
Clonfert,  '  and  I  am  certain  that  she  will  obey  me.' 

'Lady  Clonfert,  be  wise.  Don't  drive  us  to  do 
what  both  we  and  you  must  always  regret.  You 
know  that  we  must  get  our  own  way  in  the  end.' 

Lady  Clonfert  deliberately  turned  her  back  on 
him. 

'  Come,'  said  Lord  Clonfert,  '  there  is  no  use  talk- 
ing in  this  kind  of  way.  Say  good-bye  to  Lady 
Clonfert.  I'll  see  you  down  to  the  door  myself.' 

As  they  passed  the  library  the  old  man  opened  the 
door  with  a  hand  that  trembled  visibly. 

'  Come  in  here,'  he  said.  '  Now  sit  down  and  let 
us  talk  reasonably.  There's  no  use  your  defying 
Lady  Clonfert.  You'll  never  get  the  better  of  her  in 
that  way.  And  you  ought  to  feel  for  her — you  ought 
indeed.  Hester  is  her  only  daughter,  and  after  all, 
you  know,  the  thing  is  a  disgrace.  I  don't  want  to 
say  anything  to  hurt  your  feelings,  but  you  don't 
know  these  Nationalists  as  well  as  I  do.  Of  course,  I 
know  how  young  men  feel  about  patriotism,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing,  especially  when  they  haven't  lived 
in  the  country.  I  know  Hester  has  ideas  of  that  sort, 
too.  I  used  to  have  them  myself  when  I  was  at 
Oxford.  I  wrote  a  poem  about  Ireland  one  time,  and 
an  article  which  one  of  the  Dublin  papers  published, 
about  the  "  fiery  Celtic  temperament  "  and  the  "  cold 
and  calculating  Saxon."  I  pitched  it  very  strong. 
It  relieved  my  feelings  at  the  time.  There's  no 
earthly  harm  in  that  sort  of  thing.' 


THE  SEETHING  POT  173 

He  looked  at  Sir  Gerald  with  a  sort  of  wistful  hope- 
fulness. He  believed  that  if  only  Sir  Gerald's  en- 
thusiasm could  be  directed  into  a  harmless  channel, 
the  trouble  that  lay  before  them  might  be  averted, 
after  all. 

'  Or  look  here,'  he  said :  '  there's  what  they  call  the 
Gaelic  revival.  I  don't  know  much  about  it  myself, 
but  I  believe  they  do  plays  and  things  in  Dublin. 
It's  tremendously  patriotic.  They  are  reviving  the 
Irish  language  and  the  ancient  national  costume. 
They  translate  the  old  poetry  about  Finn  and  those 
people.  Suppose  you  ask  down  Dennis  Browne. 
He's  in  the  thick  of  it,  I  believe.  You  could  have 
a  play  all  in  Irish,  or  what  they  call  a  Fe'is,  at 
Clogher  House.  You  might  send  an  invitation  to 
Mr.  O'Neill.  I  think  Lady  Clonfert  would  rather 
like  it.  She  could  have  photographs  taken,  and 
pictures  of  the  performance  in  the  illustrated  papers 
afterwards.  The  whole  town  would  come,  and  we 
would  all  wear  green  poplin  ties  and  woolly  suits  of 
clothes.' 

Sir  Gerald  smiled  faintly,  in  spite  of  himself. 

'  I'm  afraid  it  is  no  use.  You  see,  I  met  Dennis 
Browne  once,  and  —  well,  he's  a  bit  above  my 
head.' 

'  Couldn't  we  get  up  lectures  in  the  town-hall  on 
Irish  history  ?  You  could  work  up  Patrick  Sarsfield 
and  Owen  Hoe  O'Neill,  pitch  into  Oliver  Cromwell, 
and  do  the  perfidy  of  England  over  the  treaty  of 
Limerick  thoroughly.  I  Id  go  and  take  the  chair,  if 


174  THE  SEETHING  POT 

you  liked,  or  we  might  get  Father  Fahy.  It  would 
be  most  useful.  There's  nothing  Irish  people  are 
so  ignorant  about  as  the  history  of  their  own 
country.1 

'  It's  no  use,'  said  Sir  Gerald.  '  You  know  yourself 
that  that  kind  of  thing  is  only  talk.  You  wouldn't 
want  me  to  do  it  if  you  thought  there  was  any  reality 
in  if 

Lord  Clonfert  pondered  for  a  minute  or  two.  Then 
he  said : 

'  You  know  Pat  O'Dowd,  don't  you  ? — the  publican 
down  at  the  harbour.  Anyhow,  you  know  who  he 
is.  He's  a  most  interesting  man.  He  was  one  of 
the  Fenian  leaders.  The  police  have  been  watching 
him  ever  since,  more  or  less.  They  say  he  has  some 
sort  of  secret  society  about  him  still — a  few  of  the  old 
physical  force  party,  and  some  young  men,  too.  I 
don't  want  to  know  anything  about  that  myself,  of 
course ;  but  I  can  quite  understand  that  it  might  be 
most  interesting  to  you.  I  can  tell  you  what  it  is :  it 
you  really  want  to  hear  home  truths  about  the 
Parliamentary  party,  it's  to  men  like  Pat  O'Dowd  you 
ought  to  go.' 

'  Lord  Clonfert,'  said  Sir  Gerald,  '  is  there  any  use 
in  talking  to  me  in  this  way  ?  Won't  you  see  that 
my  mind  is  made  up  ?' 

The  old  man  gave  a  sort  of  groan. 

'  Well,'  said  Sir  Gerald,  '  at  least  you'll  do  the  best 
you  can  for  Hester.  Don't  let  things  be  made  harder 
for  her  than  they  need  be.' 


THE  SEETHING  POT  175 

'  Then,  you  really  will  join  those  blackguards  ?' 

*  I  must,'  said  Sir  Gerald. 

'  And  you'll  drag  my  daughter  down  into  the  mud 
with  you  ?  May  God  forgive  you,  for  I  think  you'll 
break  my  heart!' 


CHAPTER  XIV 

IT  gradually  became  clear,  even  to  Lady  Clonfert,  that 
she  had  no  power  to  stop  her  daughter's  marriage. 
After  two  or  three  very  painful  interviews  with  Hester, 
she  gave  up  the  attempt,  and  adopted  a  policy  of 
silent  protest.  She  never  alluded  to  the  subject  at 
all,  and  talked  to  her  daughter  as  if  no  such  person 
as  Sir  Gerald  existed  and  no  marriage  of  any  kind 
was  in  contemplation.  Hester  felt  that  the  ceremony 
had  better  be  got  over  as  soon  as  possible.  She 
persuaded  her  father  to  promise  to  be  present,  and 
fixed  a  day  not  more  than  a  month  after  her  return 
home.  Even  her  hurried  efforts  to  obtain  something 
like  a  lady's  proper  outfit  of  clothes  for  the  occasion 
failed  to  awaken  any  sign  of  interest  in  Lady  Clonfert. 
She  ignored  the  bulky  parcels  which  came  and  went 
continually,  and  took  no  notice  of  Hester's  departure 
or  return  when  she  went  up  to  Dublin  to  visit  certain 
dressmakers. 

On  a  misty  morning  early  in  October  the  marriage 
took  place  in  the  gray  church  which  stood  just  outside 
the  wall  of  Lord  Clonfert's  demesne.  Of  the  little 
party  who  were  present,  Hester  was  by  far  the  most 

176 


THE  SEETHING  POT  177 

self-possessed.  The  old  clergyman  who  had  baptized 
her  and  taught  her  her  Catechism  was  tremulous,  and 
almost  tearful.  He  had  lived  for  years  in  awe  of 
Lady  Clonfert,  and  it  was  a  terrifying  experience  to 
find  himself  acting  in  direct  opposition  to  her  wishes. 
He  distrusted  Sir  Gerald,  whom  he  hardly  knew ;  and 
his  real  affection  for  Hester  left  him  undecided  as  to 
whether  he  was  doing  her  good  or  evil  in  marrying 
her  to  the  man  she  had  chosen. 

Sir  Gerald  was  nervous  and  irritable.  Even  the 
presence  of  Lord  Clonfert  did  not  save  him  from 
feeling  that  he  had  placed  Hester  in  a  false  position. 
It  seemed  to  him  entirely  wrong  that  she  should  have 
to  steal  through  her  wedding  as  if  it  were  something 
to  be  ashamed  of.  Lord  Clonfert  tried  to  be  cheerful, 
and  even  attempted  a  joke  with  Sir  Gerald  when  they 
met  in  the  porch.  It  was  a  lamentable  failure,  and 
before  the  service  was  over  he  had  relapsed  into  a 
condition  of  visible  misery.  The  only  other  person 
present  was  Mr.  McNeece,  who  was  fidgety  and 
obtrusive.  His  attention  was  divided  between  the 
extreme  discomfort  of  a  new  frock-coat,  imported 
from  Belfast  for  the  occasion,  and  a  desire  to  behave 
properly  as  his  patron's  best  man. 

After  the  ceremony  the  whole  party  went  to  Clon- 
fert Castle  for  luncheon.  The  meal  was  far  from 
being  a  festive  one.  Lady  Clonfert's  assumption  of 
not  knowing  what  had  happened  in  the  morning 
rendered  conversation  almost  impossible.  It  was  a 
relief  to  everyone  when  Mr.  McNeece  plucked  up  his 

12 


178  THE  SEETHING  POT 

courage  and  gave  a  short  lecture  on  the  wickedness 
of  vaccination.  Even  Lady  Clonfert  was  grateful  to 
him,  and  received  his  disquisition  hi  a  way  which  led 
him  to  speak  of  her  afterwards  as  a  most  intelligent 
woman. 

Sir  Gerald  and  his  bride  departed  nearly  an  hour 
sooner  than  was  necessary  to  catch  their  train.  They 
agreed  to  spend  at  least  three  months  abroad,  for  a 
long  absence  from  Clogher  seemed  to  offer  the  best 
chance  of  effecting  even  a  show  of  reconciliation  with 
Lady  Clonfert. 

In  the  meanwhile  local  politics  in  Clogher  were 
developing  confusedly.  Father  Fahy  was  very  well 
inclined  to  carry  out  his  Bishop's  advice.  His  defeat 
at  the  hands  of  John  O'Neill  rankled  in  his  mind,  and 
since  revenge  on  the  Parliamentary  leader  seemed  for 
the  present  beyond  his  power,  he  determined  to  annoy 
Sir  Gerald.  No  feeling  of  personal  dignity  ever  inter- 
fered with  Father  Fahy's  actions.  Indeed,  no  Roman 
priest  ought  to  have  any  sense  of  personal  dignity. 
The  dignity  of  his  office  he  will  maintain  when  it  suits 
him,  but  he  must  achieve  the  end  he  has  in  view, 
even  at  the  cost  of  humiliation  for  himself  and  his 
office.  Father  Fahy  was  so  well  trained  in  the 
traditions  of  his  order  that  he  had  no  hesitation  in 
retaining  his  position  as  vice-president  of  the  League 
whose  members  had  knocked  him  down  and  trampled 
on  him.  It  was  not  long  before  he  regained  his  old 
power.  An  Irishman  will  occasionally  bully  and 
abuse  his  priest,  but  he  is  always  repentant  after- 


THE  SEETHING  POT  179 

wards.  The  enemies  of  the  Roman  Church  in  Ireland 
have  frequently  congratulated  themselves  on  the  signs 
of  a  popular  rebellion  against  priestly  authority. 
Hitherto  their  rejoicings  have  proved  to  be  premature. 
The  very  men  who  are  most  violently  anxious  to 
break  loose  from  clerical  bondage  turn  out,  when  the 
first  frenzy  of  rebellion  is  past,  quite  as  eager  to  re- 
fasten  their  own  fetters. 

The  first  object  of  Father  Fahy's  attack  was  the 
new  agent.  Mr.  McNeece  was  before  all  things  a 
business  man.  He  had  no  idea  at  all  of  paying  over 
money  from  the  estate  without  understanding  very 
clearly  where  the  money  went.  He  incurred  the 
wrath  of  an  influential  local  contractor  by  refusing 
to  pay  his  account  until  certain  items  in  it  were 
explained.  The  explanation  resulted  in  the  deduction 
of  certain  shillings  here  and  there,  and  a  total  loss  to 
the  contractor  of  something  over  a  pound.  This  was 
bad  enough,  and  the  contractor  did  not  fail  to  lay  a 
highly- coloured  account  of  the  transaction  before  his 
fellow-Leaguers. 

Things  became  much  worse  when  Mr.  McNeece 
declined  to  pay  over  the  customary  half-yearly  sub- 
scription to  Father  Fahy's  local  charities  without 
being  told  what  the  charities  were.  The  priest  in- 
formed him  that  it  was  altogether  impossible  to 
render  accounts  of  money  given  to  the  Church. 
Mr.  McNeece  was  astonished,  but  firm  in  his  de- 
mands. He  pointed  out  that  it  was  impossible  for 
him  to  hand  over  a  considerable  sum  of  money  to 

12—2 


180  THE  SEETHING  POT 

anyone,  priest  or  layman,  without  being  told  what  it 
was  to  be  spent  on.  He  disclaimed  any  wish  on  his 
©wn  part  or  Sir  Gerald's  to  control  the  expenditure. 
An  account  of  some  sort,  however,  he  must  and 
would  have. 

Father  Fahy  was  in  a  difficult  position.  The 
financial  arrangements  of  the  Church  of  Rome  in 
Ireland  had  recently  been  subjected  to  some  severe 
criticism,  and  Father  Fahy  was  unwilling  to  put  a 
weapon  into  the  hand  of  the  enemy  by  openly 
refusing  to  put  his  name  to  the  foot  of  a  balance- 
sheet.  At  the  same  time  it  was  a  matter  of  actual 
principle  with  him,  as  it  is  with  every  other  Irish 
priest,  not  to  render  accounts  of  any  sort.  Under 
the  circumstances,  the  obvious  thing  to  do  was  to 
draw  a  red  herring  across  the  scent  by  denouncing 
Mr.  McNeece. 

At  the  next  meeting  of  the  League  the  injured  con- 
tractor brought  forward  a  resolution  protesting  against 
the  appointment  of  an  Orangeman  as  agent  on  the 
estate.  Father  Fahy,  who  was  chairman  on  the 
occasion,  advised  the  meeting  to  pass  the  resolution 
unanimously. 

'  The  Catholics  of  Clogher,'  he  said,  '  are  willing, 
and  even  anxious,  to  live  at  peace  with  their  Pro- 
testant neighbours  ;  but  we  are  not  prepared  to  allow 
sur  faith  to  be  insulted  and  our  convictions  outraged 
by  a  total  stranger,  a  member  of  an  organization 
Towed  to  the  extermination  of  Catholicism.' 

Mr.   McNeece,   as   a  rigid  Presbyterian,   detested 


THE  SEETHING  POT  181 

Orangemen  almost  as  cordially  as  Father  Fahy  him- 
self. Indeed,  he  did  so  with  much  better  reason. 
Father  Fahy  had  never  been  in  the  North,  and  wouM 
probably  not  have  recognised  the  tune  of  '  The  Pro- 
testant  Boys '  if  it  had  been  played  under  his  window. 
Mr.  McNeece  had  had  his  one  and  only  political 
speech  spoiled  by  the  braying  of  an  Orange  band  out- 
side the  hall  in  which  he  was  engaged  in  describing 
to  the  Presbyterian  Association  the  slight  which  the 
Viceregal  Court  put  upon  the  Moderator  of  their 
Assembly.  He  was,  naturally,  extremely  angry  when 
he  read  in  the  local  paper  an  account  of  Father 
Fahy's  speech.  He  wrote  to  the  editor  at  once, 
denying  that  he  was  a  member  of  the  obnoxious 
organization. 

Father  Fahy  summoned  a  special  meeting  of  the 
League,  at  which  Mr.  McNeece's  letter  was  considered. 
Two  resolutions  were  passed.  The  first  congratulated 
Mr.  McNeece  on  having  resigned  the  offices  he  held  w 
the  Orange  Society,  at  the  suggestion  of  the  League,. 
The  second  declared  that  his  action  in  no  way 
exonerated  Sir  Gerald  from  the  blame  of  having 
appointed  him. 

Mr.  McNeece,  in  private,  used  some  strong  lan- 
guage when  he  realized  the  interpretation  which  had 
been  put  upon  his  letter.  He  replied  again,  stating 
emphatically  that  he  had  never  in  his  life  been  a$ 
Orangeman,  and  requesting  an  apology  from  the 
secretary  of  the  League. 

Father    Fahy    and    the    contractor    were   greatly 


182  THE  SEETHING  POT 

pleased.  They  found  themselves  in  a  fair  way  to 
make  the  agent  odious  and  ridiculous.  The  other 
members  of  the  League  were  agreeably  excited.  At 
the  next  meeting  no  resolution  was  passed,  but  The 
Connaught  News  published  a  leading  article  on  the 
subject. 

'  We  cannot,'  so  the  article  concluded,  '  feel  any- 
thing but  contempt  for  a  man  who  is  ashamed  of  his 
principles  and  convictions.  That  any  man  should  be 
an  Orangeman  seems  to  us  deplorable ;  but  for  the 
honest  and  fearless  Orangeman  we  have  a  certain 
respect  He  is  a  foeman  worthy  of  our  steel.  We 
cannot  but  despise  the  man  who  shouts  for  King 
William  among  the  rowdies  of  Ulster,  and  denies 
having  done  so  when  he  finds  himself  in  a  minority 
in  Connaught.' 

This  was  very  well;  but  Father  Fahy  was  dis- 
appointed at  the  effect  of  the  resolutions  on  Sir 
Gerald.  The  people  generally  were  still  inclined  to 
speak  well  of  their  new  landlord,  and  it  seemed  im- 
possible to  draw  him  into  the  controversy. 

The  fact  was  that  Sir  Gerald  was  all  the  while  so 
occupied  with  his  approaching  marriage  that  he  had 
no  attention  to  spare  for  Father  Fahy.  He  felt,  too, 
that  his  alliance  with  John  O'Neill  placed  him  beyond 
the  reach  of  the  League's  pleasantries.  It  was  un- 
fortunate, from  the  priest's  point  of  view,  that  the 
striping  of  the  grazing-land  was  going  on  rapidly 
and  satisfactorily. 

A  rough  map  of  the  new  farms  was  hanging  in  the 


THE  SEETHING  POT  183 

estate  office  shortly  after  Sir  Gerald's  marriage,  and,  in 
spite  of  all  that  had  been  said  about  Mr.  McNeece,  the 
people  went  to  consult  him  quite  openly  on  market- 
days.  The  rumour  that  Sir  Gerald  had  offered  his 
services  to  John  O'Neill  as  a  member  of  the  Parlia- 
mentary Party  still  further  disquieted  Father  Fahy. 
At  first  it  seemed  to  him  quite  incredible,  but  it 
reached  him  from  so  many  different  sources  that  he 
was  forced  to  believe  it.  He  decided  to  have  another 
interview  with  his  Bishop.  He  had  really  nothing 
very  definite  to  say  when  he  arrived  at  the  Bishop's 
house.  He  stammered  in  his  tale,  and  got  confused. 
It  seemed,  however,  that  the  Bishop  understood  him 
at  last. 

'  You  seem  to  think,'  he  said,  '  that  the  people  are 
likely  to  accept  the  guidance  of  John  O'Neill  and  Sir 
Gerald  Geoghegan  in  preference  to  yours.' 

'  Yes,'  said  the  priest,  '  that  is  what  it  comes  to.' 

'  I'm  sorry  to  hear  it,'  said  the  Bishop.  '  You  see, 
the  Bishops  feel  pretty  confident  now  that  John  O'Neill 
intends  to  vote  against  the  Government  on  the  question 
of  the  Keligious  Orders.  The  Church  is  pledged  to 
support  the  Government  and  to  secure  the  Irish  votes. 
If  John  O'Neill  carries  the  party  with  him,  he  will 
inflict  a  severe  blow  on  our  prestige.  If  after  the 
General  Election  he  comes  in  again  at  the  head  of 
the  Irish  Party,  there  will  be  no  doubt  about  his 
position.  He  will  be  the  leader  of  an  anti-clerical 
party.' 

'  I  suppose  so,'  said  the  priest.     '  There  are  a  great 


184  THE  SEETHING  POT 

many  of  our  own  people  who  would  gladly  join  such  a 
party  if  they  got  a  good  lead.' 

'  If  such  a  thing  should  occur,'  said  the  Bishop, 
'  it  would  be  a  bad  day  for  us.  Anti-clerical  political 
parties  all  begin  in  the  same  way.  They  profess  to 
be  sincerely  religious,  and  to  desire  nothing  but  a 
reasonable  limitation  of  priestly  power.  They  all  end 
in  the  same  thing — a  wave  of  infidelity,  and  subsequent 
immorality.' 

'  I  have  always  thought  that  Protestants  as  polit- 
ical leaders  were  most  undesirable  and  dangerous. 
They  are  sure  to  be  jealous  of  our  power  over  the 
people.' 

'  May  God  forgive  us  if  we  think  too  much  about 
our  power !  We  are  not  fighting  for  it ;  we  are  fighting 
for  the  faith  and  souls  of  our  people.' 

The  solemnity  of  the  old  man's  tone  touched  the 
priest. 

'  What  can  I  do  ?'  he  asked.  '  I  am  willing  to  be 
a  martyr  for  the  holy  faith,  but  how  can  I  keep  my 
people  from  slipping  away  from  me  to  follow  blind 
guides  ?' 

'  Pray,  my  son — pray.  What  are  you  a  priest  for 
except  to  pray  ?  Every  time  you  offer  the  adorable 
Sacrifice  pray  for  the  souls  of  your  people  and  the 
faith  of  Ireland.  Weary  yourself,  body,  soul,  and 
spirit.  What  does  your  weariness  matter  if  your 
prayer  is  heard  ?' 

The  priest  rose  from  his  chair  and  knelt  before  the 
Bishop. 


THE  SEETHING  POT  185 

'  Give  me  your  blessing,'  he  said,  '  that  I  may 
pray.' 

The  hands  were  laid  on  his  head,  and  the  familiar 
Latin  fell  upon  his  ears.  He  knelt  quite  still  long 
after  the  Bishop  ceased  to  speak.  There  stole  over 
him  a  profound  peace,  and  with  it  a  sense  of  strength. 
The  world  seemed  to  be  very  far  away  from  him. 
He  was  among  the  realities  of  eternity.  Words  and 
phrases  which  had  long  ceased  to  be  anything  but 
formal  to  him  crowded  back  into  his  mind  charged 
•with  the  meanings  they  had  once  had  for  him.  He 
was  uplifted  from  himself,  as  he  had  been  on  the 
day  when  he  had  said  his  first  Mass.  At  length  he 
rose. 

'I  have  been,'  he  said  slowly,  'with  God,  and  with 
the  Mother  of  God,  and  with  the  blessed  Saints.' 
He  crossed  himself,  and  added :  '  Oh,  Holy  Mary, 
pray  for  me.1 

The  Bishop  looked  at  him,  saw  the  strange  light  in 
his  eyes,  and  knew  that  he  spoke  sincerely.  Very 
slowly,  with  his  eyes  still  fixed  on  the  priest,  the  old 
man  rose  from  his  seat.  His  hands  trembled  as  he 
grasped  the  arms  of  the  chair  to  raise  himself.  He 
seemed  suddenly  to  have  grown  very  old  indeed. 

'  My  son,'  he  said,  '  I  knelt  to  you  for  your  first 
benediction  on  the  day  I  made  you  priest.  You 
remember  that,  do  you  not  ?  It  is  a  beautiful 
custom,  that  of  kneeling  to  the  mewly  ordained, 
while  the  Spirit  the  Bishop's  hands  have  given  dwells 
in  a  soul  as  yet  free  from  all  sin.  I  see  that  tha 


186  THE  SEETHING  POT 

Spirit  rests  in  you  in  the  same  way  again  now. 
Therefore  now,  as  then,  I  kneel  to  you  for  your 
blessing.' 

The  younger  man  turned  away. 

'  I  cannot.    I  dare  not.     I  am  but  a  sinner.' 

'  But  you  must,'  said  the  Bishop.  '  Will  you 
deprive  my  soul  of  grace  ?' 

Men  have  denounced  the  Irish  priests  for  tyranny 
and  greed  and  lust  of  power.  Every  one  of  these 
charges  has  been,  and  is  to-day,  miserably  true.  Yet, 
behind  the  money-getting  and  the  scheming  there 
is  something  else.  It  is  very  strange  that  the  man 
who  could  take  the  bribe  which  Mr.  Godfrey  offered 
him,  who  could  play  fast  and  loose  with  truth  and 
justice  to  render  Mr.  McNeece  odious,  was  capable  of 
high  and  pure  religious  emotion.  Perhaps  there 
is  some  strange  twist  in  the  Celtic  nature  which 
renders  such  contradictions  possible.  Perhaps  there 
is  a  Divine  power  in  the  priestly  office  and  the  duty  of 
prayer  and  sacrifice  laid  upon  the  priest  which  keeps 
the  man,  in  spite  of  himself,  within  reach  of  the 
kingdom  of  heaven. 

The  great  world  which  is  neither  Celtic  nor 
Catholic  can  only  wonder  at  what  it  sees.  For, 
however  to  be  explained,  the  facts  are  plain  enough. 
The  Irish  priests  have  schemed  and  lied,  have 
blustered  and  bullied,  have  levied  taxes  beyond  belief 
upon  the  poorest  of  the  poor  ;  but  they  have  taught 
the  people  a  religion  which  penetrates  their  lives, 
and  which,  in  its  essential  features,  is  not  far  from 


THE  SEETHING  POT  187 

the  Spirit  of  Christ.  Such  religion  is  not  to  be 
taught  by  words.  The  man  who  imparts  it  must 
first  understand  it  and  possess  it  in  his  own  soul. 
This  is  the  most  wonderful  puzzle  in  Irish  life. 
Some  who  try  to  understand  Ireland  see  the  priests 
and  what  they  do.  Then  they  curse  Ireland  and 
despair  of  her,  or  hope  only  that  her  people  will 
some  day  cease  to  be  Catholics.  Others  see  the 
people,  and  love  them  for  their  goodness.  They 
shut  their  eyes  to  all  the  evils  of  the  pervading 
priestcraft.  None  of  them  see  Ireland  whole  or 
understand  her.  It  remains  for  someone,  a  prophet, 
to  see  the  good  and  the  evil,  to  know  where  each 
comes  from  and  to  divide  them  the  one  from  the 
other. 


CHAPTER  XV 

WHEN  Sir  Gerald  and  Lady  Geoghegan  returned 
from  their  long  honeymoon  shortly  after  Christmas, 
life  at  once  became  extremely  interesting  to  them. 
Someone — it  is  always  difficult  to  trace  a  great 
movement  to  its  source — had  started  a  famine  in 
the  West  of  Ireland.  English  philanthropists,  and 
afterwards  the  English  press,  took  the  matter  up 
warmly.  Funds  were  started  for  the  relief  of  the 
starving  peasantry,  and  well-to-do  people,  especially 
in  Lancashire,  subscribed  largely.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  the  peasants  in  certain  parts  of  Connaught  are 
always  so  poor  as  to  be  on  the  verge  of  actual 
hunger.  Some  winters  things  are  a  little  worse  than 
usual.  Then,  if  circumstances  are  otherwise  favour- 
able, there  is  a  sensation,  and  relief  on  a  large  scale 
is  attempted  by  the  charitable. 

Sir  Gerald  found  himself  a  member  of  the  local 
committee  for  the  distribution  of  Indian  meal  and 
potatoes.  He  also  discovered,  to  his  surprise,  that 
he  was  an  object  of  considerable  interest  to  the 
representatives  of  various  newspapers  and  to  inquisi- 
tive philanthropists  on  tour.  He  owed  his  fame 

188 


THE  SEETHING  POT  189 

to  the  discovery,  by  an  intelligent  reporter,  of  the 
plan  for  dealing  with  the  grazing-lands  on  his  estate. 
He  was  posed  before  the  public  of  Manchester  and 
Liverpool  as  an  enlightened  landlord. 

Both  positions  had  their  disadvantages.  It  is  dis- 
agreeable, on  returning  from  a  walk  or  a  drive,  to  find 
your  door  besieged  by  beggars.  Sir  Gerald's  first 
experience  of  this  part  of  the  work  laid  upon  members 
of  relief  committees  bewildered  him.  There  were 
about  fifty  people,  mostly  women,  congregated  on 
the  gravel  in  front  of  his  doorstep.  Hester  was 
ministering  tea  and  bread  to  them,  assisted  by 
Jameson,  who  evidently  disliked  the  task.  At  Sir 
Gerald's  approach  the  whole  crowd  hastened  to 
surround  him. 

'  Your  honour  will  get  me  a  stone  of  potatoes  from 
the  committee,'  clamoured  an  old  crone,  clinging  to 
his  coat-sleeve.  '  I'm  the  widow  Macanally.' 

'  Will  you  not  let  the  gentleman  be  !'  said  another. 
'  Bad  luck  to  you  with  your  pushing  and  crowding !' 

'  Your  honour,  I'm  Antony  Henaghan  Tom,'  cried 
an  old  man.  '  There's  never  a  one  has  the  need  of 
the  relief  like  myself.' 

'  Is  it  you  needing  the  relief?'  said  a  young  woman 
with  a  baby  in  her  arms.  '  Don't  be  listening  to  him, 
your  honour.  Sure,  haven't  I  the  long  weak  family, 
and  every  one  of  them  a  colleen  and  no  good  at  all 
to  earn,  and  myself  with  never  a  thing  to  put  on  me 
but  an  old  shawl  and  a  petticoat,  saving  your  honour's 
presence  ?' 


190  THE  SEETHING  POT 

'  Musha,  and  it's  true  for  her,  the  creature  !'  said  a 
chorus  of  sympathizers. 

'  I'm  the  widow  Geraghty,'  broke  in  another.  '  And 
it's  hardly  ever  I  got  this  far  itself  with  the  hunger 
that  is  on  me.  I'ld  be  bet  up  this  minute  only  for 
the  sup  of  tea  her  ladyship  gave  me.  The  blessing 
of  God  and  the  Holy  Virgin  be  on  her  for  that 
same.' 

4  My  cow  died  on  me  ere  yesterday,'  said  another. 
'The  childer  is  starved  for  the  want  of  a  drop  of 
milk' 

'The  rain  is  coming  in  through  the  roof  of  my 
little  houseen,  your  honour,  and  my  bed's  destroyed 
on  me.' 

'I'm  a  lone  orphan  woman  that's  after  burying 
my  husband  and  six  as  fine  boys  as  ever  you  seen. 
Don't  heed  her  talking.  Hasn't  she  a  boy  to  work 
for  her  ?' 

'And  if  I  have  itself,  it's  a  bad  head  he  is  to 
me.' 

'  Faith,  and  that's  true,'  put  in  another.  '  He's  a 
foolish  poor  man,  and  every  penny  he  gets  goes  on 
the  drink.' 

Sir  Gerald  struggled  through  the  crowd  to 
Hester. 

'  What  are  we  to  do  ?'  he  asked. 

'  I  don't  know,'  she  said ;  '  I  have  no  more  bread 
in  the  house.' 

'I  beg  your  pardon,  Sir  Gerald,'  said  Jameson 
respectfully,  '  but  don't  be  giving  money  to  them. 


THE  SEETHING  POT  191 

The  half  of  them  is  just  impostors,  and  the  rest  is  not 
in  want  of  much.' 

'  Listen  to  me,'  said  Sir  Gerald,  loud  enough  to  be 
heard  above  the  clamour.  '  I  have  no  relief  to  give 
you  here.  I'll  make  a  list  of  your  names  and  where 
you  live,  and  bring  it  before  the  committee  at  the 
next  meeting.' 

There  was  a  chorus  of  gratitude : 

'  The  blessing  of  God  on  your  honour  .'  '  That  you 
may  be  alive  and  well  this  day  twenty  years  !'  'Long 
life  to  yourself  and  her  ladyship !'  'Miss  Hester,  God 
bless  her !  was  always  a  good  one  for  the  poor !'  '  Sure, 
he's  a  grand  man  entirely  you've  got,  Miss  Hester, 
glory  be  to  God !' 

Making  a  list  of  names  sounds  an  easy  thing,  but 
Sir  Gerald  found  that  in  this  case  there  were  certain 
difficulties. 

'  My  name  is  Bridget  Deveren,  your  honour,  but 
my  husband's  name  was  MailKa.' 

'  Put  her  down  as  Mrs.  O'Malley,'  said  Hester. 

'  But  she  says  her  name  is  Deveren.' 

'  And  so  it  is,'  said  the  woman.  '  But,  sure,  her 
ladyship  knows  best,  and  its  Mrs.  Maillia  that  they'ld 
call  me  at  the  committee.' 

'  James  Heraty  Pat !'  repeated  Sir  Gerald  after  an 
old  man.  '  Do  you  mean  James  Patrick  Heraty  ?' 

'  I  do  not,  your  honour.  Sure,  Jamsey  Pat 
Heraty  is  my  brother's  son,  and  not  myself  at 
all.' 

1  Is  Pat  your  surname,  then  ?' 


192  THE  SEETHING  POT 

Again  Hester  rescued  him. 

'  Put  down  just  what  he  says,  Gerald ;  I'll  explain 
it  to  you  afterwards.' 

While  he  was  completing  his  list,  Sir  Gerald  ob- 
served, with  surprise  and  some  annoyance,  a  young 
man  who  was  walking  round  the  group  and  taking 
photographs  with  a  hand  camera  from  different  points 
of  view.  As  soon  as  the  last  name  was  taken  down, 
he  approached  the  stranger,  intending  to  express  his 
feelings  plainly. 

'Are  you  aware,  sir,  that  these  are  private 
grounds  ?' 

The  stranger  blandly  presented  his  card. 

'  I  presume,'  he  said,  '  that  I  am  addressing  Sir 
Gerald  Geoghegan.  I  came  into  your  grounds  with 
the  intention  of  calling  upon  you.  My  name,  as  you 
will  see,  is  Dixon — Septimus  Dixon,  spelled  with  an 
x.  I  represent  The  Morning  Observer.  I  am  making 
a  tour  of  Connaught,  and  am  doing  a  series  of  articles 
on  the  famine- stricken  peasantry.' 

'  I  have  the  strongest  objection  to  being  photo- 
graphed,' said  Sir  Gerald. 

'  The  photographs  are  not  intended  for  publication,' 
said  Mr.  Dixon,  regarding  Sir  Gerald  with  an  engaging 
.sniile.  '  May  I  ask  you  a  few  questions  ?  It  would 
deeply  interest  our  readers  to  have  before  them  a 
landlord's  view  of  the  situation.  Especially,  if  you 
will  allow  me  to  say  so,  that  of  a  landlord  who 
has  shown  a  sincere  interest  in  the  welfare  of  his 
people.' 


THE  SEETHING  POT  193 

'  I  suppose,'  said  Sir  Gerald  ungraciously,  '  that  yoe 
had  better  come  into  the  house.' 

Mr.  Dixon  followed  his  victim  into  the  library.  He 
produced  a  note-book,  and  propounded  a  long  series 
of  questions.  He  wanted  to  know  the  exact  price  of 
potatoes  in  the  market,  the  hygienic  value  of  homa- 
made  flannel  as  an  article  of  clothing,  the  facilities 
which  existed  for  the  transport  of  mackerel  to  London, 
the  possible  earnings  of  a  woman  who  spent  her  days 
in  knitting  socks.  Four  times  Sir  Gerald  was  obliged 
to  confess  his  inability  to  satisfy  this  craving  for 
detailed  information.  On  each  occasion  Mr.  DIXOE 
made  a  note.  Sir  Gerald  felt  that  he  was  losing  hia 
reputation,  and  was  not  likely,  after  all,  to  figure 
in  The  Morning  Observer  as  an  enlightened  land- 
lord. 

'  I  understand/  said  Mr.  Dixon,  '  that  you  have 
devised  an  entirely  new  scheme  for  the  manage- 
ment of  your  estate.  May  I  ask  for  a  few 
details  ?' 

Sir  Gerald  denied  that  he  was  a  reformer  on  a 
large  scale,  but  gave  an  outline  of  O'Neill's  scheme 
for  dealing  with  the  grazing-lands.  Mr.  Dixon  seemed 
disappointed. 

'  Your  agent,  Mr.  McNeece,'  he  laid,  '  told  me  aB 
that  this  morning.  Is  there  nothing  further  ?' 

'  What  on  earth  did  you  expect  ?'  asked  Sir  Gerald 
'  Did  you  think  I  had  started  a  communistic  brother- 
hood ?' 

•Well,   not    exactly    that.      I    thought Bufc 

13 


194  THE  SEETHING  POT 

never  mind.  Perhaps  you  will  favour  me  with 
your  private  views  on  the  land  question  in  general* 
and  the  value  of  the  Roman  Catholic  priesthood  as  a 
social  force.' 

'  Really,'  said  Sir  Gerald,  who  was  beginning  to  be 
amused,  '  if  I  am  to  give  you  a  precis  of  all  my  views 
on  everything  Irish,  you  are  likely  to  spend  a  week 
in  listening  to  me.' 

Mr.  Dixon  made  another  note. 

'  One  more  question  I  should  like  to  ask,'  he  said, 
'and  I  need  scarcely  say  that  I  shall  treat  your 
answer  as  confidential.  In  fact ' — he  closed  the  note- 
book as  he  spoke,  and  restored  it  to  his  breast-pocket 
— '  I  ask  this  question  entirely  for  my  own  satisfaction. 
Is  there  any  famine  at  all  ?  This  is  a  point  on  which 
I  find  the  greatest  difficulty  in  obtaining  reliable 
information.' 

Almost  every  day  for  a  week  or  two  someone  called 
to  interview  him  on  the  subject  of  the  famine  or  his 
own  new  farms.  He  learned  to  get  rid  of  newspaper 
men  comparatively  easily.  They  all  asked  the  same 
questions,  and  Canon  Johnston  taught  him  the  plan 
of  keeping  a  series  of  answers  jotted  down  and 
ready  for  use.  It  was  only  occasionally  that  one  of 
Ihem  broke  fresh  ground  and  asked  some  startlingly 
idiotic  question,  which  necessitated  an  unprepared 
answer. 

A  much  more  difficult  class  to  deal  with  were  the 
gentlemen  who  had  plans  for  the  commercial  regenera- 
tion of  Ireland.  There  was  a  man  who  tried  hard  to 


THE  SEETHING  POT  195 

convince  everyone  he  met  that  a  few  thousand  pounds 
invested  in  knitting-machines  would  enable  everyone 
to  live  in  plenty.  The  machines  were  to  be  distributed 
among  the  cottagers,  and  an  instructress  was  to  be 
hired  to  explain  their  use.  It  turned  out  afterwards 
that  this  man  was  an  agent  for  an  English  firm  who 
manufactured  knitting-machines,  and  that  he  also 
acted  privately  as  a  middle-man  in  the  stocking  trade. 
Another  gentleman  came  armed  with  large  lumps  of 
charcoal,  which  he  had  made,  so  he  assured  Sir 
Gerald,  from  turf  by  a  patent  process.  All  he  re- 
quired was  a  lease,  on  easy  terms,  of  a  few  hundred 
acres  of  bog,  and  sufficient  capital  to  buy  the  neces- 
sary plant.  He  talked  convincingly  of  certain  by- 
products, of  which  he  produced  specimens  in  bottles. 
These  alone  were  to  pay  the  whole  cost  of  working, 
and  the  fortunate  shareholders  would  gather  in  the 
enormous  profits  of  the  sale  of  charcoal.  Another  had 
a  delightful  scheme  for  making  tooth-powder,  toilet- 
powder,  and  a  drug  which  would  supersede  iodofbrm, 
out  of  turf  ashes.  Every  cottage  fire,  as  he  very  truly 
pointed  out,  produces  annually  an  enormous  quantity 
of  turf  ash.  At  present  it  goes  entirely  to  waste,  and 
might  be  obtained  at  little  more  than  the  cost  of  col- 
lection. Properly  treated  and  retailed  after  suitable 
advertisement,  it  would  realize  a  handsome  sum. 
Turf  ashes — this  gentleman  had  experimented,  and 
therefore  knew — possess  valuable  antiseptic  pro- 
perties. 

The  philanthropists  were    even  worse    than  the 

18—2 


196  THE  SEETHING  POT 

speculators.  They  appeared  upon  the  scene  in  con- 
siderable numbers,  and,  being  usually  men  of  a 
certain  social  position  and  of  quite  unimpeachable 
motives,  had  to  be  treated  with  some  forbearance, 
so  far  as  forbearance  was  humanly  possible.  Three 
members  of  this  class  called  on  Sir  Gerald  one  evening 
after  dinner.  They  introduced  each  other.  One  was 
a  retired  military  man — a  Colonel.  Another  was  a 
Professor — it  did  not  appear  of  what  art  or  science. 
The  third  was  a  lady  of  uncertain  age.  She  did  not 

•/  o 

seem  to  be  either  the  wife  or  the  daughter,  but  may 
have  been  the  niece,  of  one  of  the  gentlemen.  All 
three  came  from  Manchester.  They  had  primed 
themselves  beforehand  with  what  seemed  to  be 
scraps  from  the  perorations  of  speeches  delivered  to 
a  charitable  English  public.  They  came  ostensibly 
for  information,  but  were  so  intent  upon  discharging 
their  platitudes  at  Sir  Gerald  that  they  forgot  to  allow 
him  to  speak. 

Father  Fahy  had  taken  them  during  the  afternoon 
to  visit  a  cabin  on  the  shores  of  the  bay.  Sir  Gerald 
knew  the  house  well.  It  was  one  which  was  regu- 
larly used  to  produce  the  necessary  impression  on 
English  visitors.  Its  owner,  an  obliging  man  with  a 
sense  of  humour,  entered  into  the  spirit  of  the  exhibi- 
tions. He  was  always  to  be  found  seated  on  a  low 
stool  before  the  smouldering  ashes  of  a  turf  fire.  His 
clothes  were  picturesquely  ragged.  His  trousers  hung 
in  a  kind  of  fringe  over  his  bare  feet.  If  he  got 
reasonable  notice  of  a  proposed  visit,  he  borrowed 


THE  SEETHING  POT  197 

an  impressive  number  of  half-clad  children  from  his 
neighbours.  The  Colonel  made  a  sketch  of  the  scene. 
The  lady  had  expended  a  whole  spool  of  Kodak  films 
In  obtaining  photographs.  All  three  were  loud  in 
their  appreciation  of  what  they  had  been  shown. 

On  the  whole,  Sir  Gerald  enjoyed  his  experience  of 
a  famine  greatly.  Old  Lord  Clonfert  was  a  constant 
visitor  at  Clogher  House,  and  was  prepared  to  enjoy 
to  the  full  the  fuss  that  was  being  made.  It  was,  he 
explained,  the  eighth  famine  which  he  recollected, 
and  every  one  of  them  had  added  to  the  gaiety  of  life. 
He  was  thankful  that  Lady  Clonfert  was  paying  a 
visit  to  her  brother  in  England. 

'  You  know,  Hester,'  he  said,  'your  dear  mother  is  a 
little  inclined  to  take  these  things  too  seriously.  Of 
course,  being  English,  she  must  not  be  blamed  for 
that.  She  would  certainly  want  to  be  up  and  doing, 
and  it  is  so  much  nicer  to  sit  still  and  watch  other 
people.' 

Sir  Gerald  and  Hester  were  also  glad  that  Lady 
Clonfert  was  away  from  home.  She  could  not  have 
been  expected  to  ignore  the  circumstances  of  their 
marriage.  Her  sense  of  dramatic  fitness  would  have 
demanded  a  full-dress  reconciliation.  Neither  of 
them  liked  the  prospect,  and  there  was  still  the 
friendship  with  O'Neill  in  the  background,  unre- 
nounced.  Lord  Clonfert  asked  no  questions,  and,  so 
long  as  he  was  not  called  on  to  meet  the  Nationalist 
leader  face  to  face,  could  be  relied  on  to  avoid  the 
difficult  subject.  Hester  herself  rapidly  made  friends 


198  THE  SEETHING  POT 

with  Mrs.  O'Neill,  and  entered  into  most  of  her 
schemes  of  charity.  For  O'Neill  himself  she  de- 
veloped a  kind  of  timid  hero-worship.  His  caustic 
contempt  for  the  charitable  endeavours  of  the  English 
philanthropists  never  seemed  to  include  the  quiet 
almsgiving  of  his  wife.  He  never  did  more  than 
protest  laughingly  against  their  extravagance.  Some- 
times he  drove  them  on  their  more  distant  expeditions, 
for  they  were  not  content  to  relieve  only  the  poverty 
which  clamoured  at  their  doors. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

ONE  day  Sir  Gerald  met  Dennis  Browne  in  the  street 
of  Clogher.  He  did  not  at  first  recognise  the  poet, 
who  had  arrayed  himself  in  a  violently-coloured  tweed 
suit  and  a  pair  of  very  shiny  yellow  leggings. 

'  I  don't  wonder  at  your  not  knowing  me,'  said 
Browne,  glancing  at  his  own  clothes.  '  I  assure  you 
they  are  most  uncomfortable.  I  thought  I  ought  to 
wear  something  of  the  sort.  It  seemed  to  be  expected 
of  me  when  I  thought  of  coming  down  here.  Do  you 
think  it  would  matter  if  I  didn't  do  it  any  more  ?  I 
should  like  so  much  to  return  to  the  garb  of  civilized 
mankind.' 

'  What  on  earth  brings  you  down  here  V  asked  Sir 
Gerald. 

'  Didn't  I  tell  you  ?'  said  Browne.  '  I  have  a  little 
property  down  here,  and  a  quite  dilapidated  house. 
They  told  me  my  people  were  the  most  famine- 
stricken  of  all.  I  came  down  at  once.  I  had  never 
seen  a  famine.' 

'  Well,'  said  Sir  Gerald,  smiling,  '  what  do  you 
think  of  it  ?' 

1  Oh,'  said  Browne,  '  I  find  it  charming.    The  feet 

199 


200  THE  SEETHING  POT 

and  legs  of  the  younger  women  are  delightful.  I 
regard  it  as  a  special  dispensation  of  Providence  that 
they  are  too  poor  to  buy  shoes  and  stockings.  I  met 
a  girl  to-day  fit  to  be  a  model.  She  was  striding 
across  a  beautiful  brown  bog  with  a  basket  of  turf  on 
her  kack.  Her  figure  had  all  the  freedom  of  a  boy's. 
It  would  be  a  sacrilege  to  put  a  pair  of  corsets  on  her. 
They  tell  me,  though,  that  even  the  peasant  girls 
wear  them  on  Sundays,  also  boots  and  stockings  and 
long  skirts.  I  have  not  been  here  yet  for  a  Sunday. 
If  I  am  I  shall  stay  indoors.  I  could  not  bear  it.  I 
imagine  that  they  could  only  buy  the  cheapest  makes. 
Some  of  the  steels  would  be  certain  to  have  broken, 
and  I  should  see  them  sticking  up  in  little  lumps 
ander  their  shoulder-blades.' 

'  But  what  about  the  famine  ?'  asked  Sir  Gerald. 
*  Have  you  formed  any  opinions  about  it  ?  We  talk 
ef  nothing  else  down  here,  you  know.' 

'  I  don't  wonder.  I  am  suffering  from  it  myself 
acutely.  I  brought  down  a  quantity  of  tinned 
provisions  with  me  from  the  Stores,  but  I  never 
realized  before  how  very  bad  such  things  are  at 
the  best.  Of  course,  there  is  a  housekeeper  who  says 
she  cooks,  but  I  have  not  ventured  to  try  her.  I 
looked  into  the  kitchen.  She  appeared  to  possess 
a  frying-pan  and  a  strange  utensil  which  she  called  a 
"  pot-oven."  No,  I  couldn't  venture.  It  might  have 
been  worse  than  the  tinned  pates.' 

'  I  don't  wonder  that  you  have  definite  views  about 
the  famine.  Would  you  like  me  to  give  you  a  relief 


THE  SEETHING  POT  201 

ticket  ?  You  could  exchange  it  for  a  stone  of  Indian 
meal,  and  make  porridge.' 

1  I'm  not  a  professional  mendicant,  but  I  confess 
that  I  should  be  grateful  for  a  dinner.  I  hear  you 
are  married.  Do  you  think  Lady  Geoghegan  would 
give  me  food  ?' 

'  Of  course.  We  shall  be  delighted  to  see  you. 
Come  over  and  stop  with  us  as  long  as  you  remain  in 
the  West.' 

'Thank  you.  This  is  hospitality  worthy  of  the 
unsophisticated  savage.  I  had  heard  of  such  among 
very  primitive  peoples,  but  never  hoped  to  meet  it.  I 
am  sure  Lady  Geoghegan  will  be  charming.  Will 
she  mind  if  I  relapse  into  my  natural  trousers  again 
in  the  morning  ?  I  won't  stay  with  you  beyond 
luncheon-time  to-morrow.  I  have  sent  for  my 
cook  from  Dublin,  and  told  her  to  bring  the  necessary 
implements  of  her  craft  in  a  packing-case.' 

'  By  the  way,'  said  Sir  Gerald,  struck  by  a  sudden 
recollection,  '  perhaps  you  had  better  not  come  until 
to-morrow.  We  are  expecting  O'Neill  and  his  wife  to 
dine  with  us  to-night.' 

'  Does  he  dislike  me  greatly  ?'  asked  Browne. 
'  Could  I  not  overcome  his  prejudice  if  I  exerted 
myself  and  became  really  charming  ?' 

'Oh,  I  don't  think  he  is  likely  to  mind,'  said 
Sir  Gerald.  '  What  I  was  thinking  of  was  that 
perhaps  you  might  object  to  meeting  him.  I  find 
that  very  many  people  do.  He  is  the  leader  of  the 
Nationalist  Party,  you  know.' 


202  THE  SEETHING  POT 

1  There  is  no  one  in  the  world  whom  I  object  to 
meet.  I  am  sure  I  shall  enjoy  Mr.  O'Neill  Will  he 
make  a  speech  ?  I  haven't  heard  a  political  speech 
for  years.' 

Early  in  the  afternoon  John  O'Neill  arrived  at 
Clogher  House,  bringing  with  him  a  stranger.  This 
was  Sir  John  Harrison,  an  Englishman,  who  was  just 
then  enjoying  a  well-earned  fame  and  a  recently 
bestowed  K.C.B.  He  had  attracted  public  notice  by 
doing  something  to  the  river  Nile  which  rendered  its 
waters  more  available  for  irrigation  than  they  were 
meant  to  be  by  Nature.  He  had  further  distin- 
guished himself  by  persuading  certain  tribes  who 
lived  inland  from  the  Gold  Coast  to  accept  the 
advantages  of  a  British  protectorate.  On  his  return 
home  from  this  latter  exploit  he  had  written  a  book, 
and  illustrated  it  with  beautiful  pictures  of  savages. 
The  work  cost  two  guineas,  and  achieved  an  immense 
success. 

'  I  consider  myself  fortunate,'  he  said,  '  in  having 
this  opportunity  of  discussing  the  Irish  problem 
with  three  men  who  must  be  regarded  as  representa- 
tive Irishmen.' 

Sir  Gerald  murmured  a  suitable  civility. 

*  I  have  been  deeply  impressed,'  began  Sir  John, 
'  during  my  stay  in  Ireland  with  two  facts — first,  the 
immense  interest  people  take  in  religion  ;  and, 
secondly,  the  commercial  stagnation.  I'm  sure, 
Mr.  O'Neill,  that  these  facts  have  struck  a  careful 
observer  like  you.' 


THE  SEETHING  POT  203 

'  I'm  not  much  of  an  observer/  said  O'Neill,  '  but 
what  you  mention  has  more  or  less  forced  itself  on 
my  attention.' 

'  You  haven't  mentioned  the  stones,'  said  Browne, 
'  the  gray  stones  that  lie  on  the  fields  all  over  Con- 
naught.  I  am  convinced  that  they  have  a  signifi- 
cance.' 

Sir  John  seemed  a  little  puzzled. 

'  There  certainly  are  stones,'  he  said ;  '  I  don't 
think  I  ever  saw  so  many  stones  anywhere.  But 
I  don't  quite  see  what  you  mean  by  their  signifi- 
cance.' 

'When  the  Creator,'  said  Browne,  'was  riddling 
out  the  earth  over  Europe,  He  used  to  empty  the 
sieve  on  to  Connaught.' 

He  spoke  as  if  he  were  uttering  a  profound  truth 
whose  bearing  on  the  subject  in  hand  would  be 
immediately  obvious.  O'Neill  chuckled  softly.  Sir 
John  paused  and  considered  the  remark.  Apparently 
he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  beyond  him, 
for  he  went  on : 

'  Now,  it  seems  to  me  that  what  Ireland  wants 
is  less  religion  and  more  trade.  For  instance, 
instead  of  commemorating  St.  Patrick,  you  ought 
to  have  a  public  holiday  in  honour  of  the  Guinness 
family.' 

'  Should  we  be  obliged  to  drink  stout  that  day  ?* 
asked  Browne.  '  One  ought  to  work  out  the  details 
of  a  reform  of  the  kind  beforehand.  Stout  is  very 
severe  on  the  liver.' 


204  THE  SEETHING  POT 

'Have  you  made  your  suggestion  to  any  of  the 
clergy  ?'  asked  O'Neill. 

'  Oh  yes ;  I  called  on  both  Father  Fahy  and  Canon 
Johnston  this  morning.' 

'  How  did  they  take  it  ?'  asked  Sir  Gerald  with 
interest. 

'  I  was  disappointed,'  admitted  Sir  John.  '  But 
you  know,  gentlemen,  what  the  theological  temper 
is  like.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  prejudice  in  every 
ecclesiastic.  If  I  were  to  differentiate  between  them, 
I  should  say  that  Father  Fahy  was  the  more  un- 
willing to  give  up  St.  Patrick  and  Canon  Johnston 
had  the  stronger  objection  to  the  substitution  of 
Guinness.' 

'  Perhaps  you  didn't  know  that  the  Canon  13 
a  strong  advocate  of  total  abstinence,'  said  Sir 
Gerald. 

'  Dear  me  !  Now,  perhaps  if  I  had  said  Harland 
and  Wolff  instead  of  Guinness  it  would  have  been 
all  right.' 

'Try  him,'  said  O'Neill.  'There's  nothing  like 
trying.' 

Dennis  Browne  seemed  to  have  lost  interest  in 
the  conversation  since  the  significance  of  his  stones 
was  ignored.  He  stood  by  the  window  fingering  a 
cigarette. 

'  It  is  a  great  pleasure,'  went  on  Sir  John,  '  to  talk 
to  men  like  you,  who  are  free  from  religious  pre- 
judice. If  only  all  Ireland  could  be  hypnotized  for 
a  fortnight,  and  every  religious  impression  removed 


THE  SEETHING  POT  205 

from  the  minds  of  the  people,  she  might  at  once 
become  a  prosperous  and  contented  portion  of  the 
United  Kingdom.' 

'  Have  you  any  other  suggestions  to  make  ?'  asked 
O'Neill  a  little  grimly. 

'It  has  occurred  to  me,'  said  Sir  John,  'that  Achill 
Island  might  be  turned  into  a  kind  of  immense  zoo- 
logical gardens.  Wild  animals  could  be  imported — 
not,  of  course,  the  larger  carnivora — and  allowed  to 
roam  at  large  among  its  mountain  slopes.  I  cannot 
suppose  that  the  inhabitants  would  object,  if  they 
were  compensated  for  the  damage  done  to  their 
property.  I  know  no  place  more  suitable  for  an 
imitation  of  the  ancient  Eastern  paradeisos.' 

'  I  have  heard,'  said  Browne  from  the  window, 
'  that  the  climate  is  particularly  suited  to  wild  asses.' 

'  Really,'  said  Sir  John.  '  Now,  I  have  seen  the 
wild  ass ' 

Sir  Gerald  was  moved  by  an  impulse  of  pity  to 
interpose. 

'  Would  the  Kings  of  England  hunt  in  your  new 
paradise,  Sir  John,  after  the  fashion  of  the  Persian 
monarchs  ?' 

John  O'Neill's  temper  was  apparently  beginning  to 
give  way.  He  closed  the  discussion  of  the  prospects 
of  Achill  with  an  abrupt,  '  Anything  else  ?' 

'I  should  think,'  went  on  Sir  John,  unabashed, 
'  that  a  tunnel  under  St.  George's  Channel  would  be 
of  immense  service  to  Ireland.  Regular  land  com- 
munication with  England  would  wean  your  people 


206  THE  SEETHING  POT 

from  their  insularity.  I  am  convinced  that,  if  once 
Irishmen  could  be  taught  to  regard  themselves  as 
English  in  the  same  sense  as,  for  instance,  a  Lanca- 
shire man  is  English,  a  great  change  would  take  place 
in  the  relations  of  the  two  countries.' 

'  That  seems  probable  enough,'  said  Sir  Gerald. 

'It  is  very  gratifying  to  hear  you  say  so,'  replied 
Sir  John.  '  Now,  Mr.  O'Neill,  tell  me  candidly  what 
you  think  of  my  views.  They  are,  of  course,  neces- 
sarily somewhat  crude,  but  what  do  you  think  of 
them  ?' 

'  I  should  not  like  to  say  all  that  I  think.  It  might 
be  awkward  for  you  if  I  did.  But  I  will  say  this :  Of 
all  the  intelligent  foreigners ' 

'  Don't  say  foreigners/  pleaded  Sir  John. 

'  Well,  of  all  the  intelligent  Englishmen  that  I  have 
ever  heard  speak  about  Ireland,  you  are  quite  the 
most  intelligently  English.' 

Sir  John  pondered  this  saying.  It  seemed  to  strike 
him  as  enigmatic  and  not  wholly  satisfactory.  He 
shortly  afterwards  took  his  leave. 

'  Did  you  ever,'  said  O'Neill  when  he  was  gone, 
'  listen  to  such  an  utterly  damned  idiot  ?' 

'Your  language,'  said  Browne  softly  from  the 
window,  '  would  certainly  outrage  my  cook.  I  am  so 
glad  she  is  not  here.  She  has  called  hi  a  policeman 
for  less  than  that.  On  the  whole,  though,  you 
express  my  feeling.  He  lit  a  cigarette,  and  quoted  : 

* "  A  fool,  a  fool,  I  met  a  fool  in  the  forest ; 
As  I  do  live  by  bread,  I  am  a  fool."  ' 


THE  SEETHING  POT  207 

'  I  should  like,'  said  Sir  Gerald,  '  to  have  heard  the 
interview  with  the  priest  and  the  parson.' 

At  dinner  that  evening  Browne  devoted  himself  to 
the  task  of  entertaining  Lady  Geoghegan.  He  chose 
in  the  first  instance  to  talk  about  cookery.  It  was 
a  subject  in  which  he  was  himself  deeply  interested, 
and  it  seemed  likely  to  be  within  the  range  of  a 
woman's  understanding.  He  described  at  some  length 
a  method  of  cooking  the  fins  of  dogfish  and  serving 
them  with  a  kind  of  black  sauce.  He  related  some 
anecdotes  of  a  chef  with  whom  he  had  been  intimate 
in  Paris.  John  O'Neill,  who  sat  on  the  other  side  of 
his  hostess,  became  gradually  disgusted  with  Browne's 
serious  earnestness  about  food.  He  made  an  effort  to 
divert  the  conversation. 

'  Sir  Gerald  tells  me,'  he  said,  when  Browne  came 
to  a  pause,  '  that  he  bought  some  pictures  when  he 
was  abroad.  I  haven't  seen  them  yet.  I  suppose 
you  have  hardly  had  time  to  unpack  them  ? ' 

'I  must  show  them  to  you,'  said  Hester.  'They 
are  all  stacked  in  the  gallery.  Perhaps  you  would 
like  to  see  them  to-morrow.  Do  you  care  for  pictures, 
Mr.  Browne  ?' 

'  I  am  probably  the  only  real  judge  of  art  at  present  in 
the  British  Isles,'  said  Browne.  '  I  wish  Sir  Gerald  had 
consulted  me  before  buying  anything.  The  mistakes 
which  really  intelligent  and  well-intentioned  people 
make  in  these  matters  astonish  me.  There  is  a  print 
hanging  in  my  bedroom  here,  Lady  Geoghegan, 
which  I  was  obliged  to  veil  with  my  bath-towel.  I 


208  THE  SEETHING  POT 

don't  blame  you  for  its  being  there.  I  don't  blame 
Sir  Gerald,  either.  It  probably  represents  the  taste 
of  his  uncle.  It  shows  Britannia,  a  plump  lady,  in  a 
low-necked  dress,  giving  a  Bible  to  a  kneeling  Indian. 
A  gentleman  in  a  white  waistcoat,  representing  the 
respectable  English  middle  class,  stands  behind  her. 
His  face  betrays  the  satisfaction  of  a  righteous  man 
who  sees  a  good  deed  done.  Just  picture  the  scene 
to  yourself,  Mr.  O'Neill :  A  stout,  middle-aged  woman 
in  a  low-necked  dress  presents  a  copy  of  the  Sacred 
Scriptures,  Authorized  Version,  to  the  representatives 
of  the  ancient  wisdom  of  the  East.' 

*  You  shall  have  another  bath-towel,'  said  Hester, 
laughing.  '  I'm  glad  you  mentioned  it.' 

'No  fat  woman,'  said  Browne,  'ought  ever  to 
wear  a  low-necked  dress.  There  ought  to  be  some 
law  against  it.  The  thing  is  disgusting  and  indecent/ 

'  Hence,  I  suppose,  the  bath-towel,'  said  O'Neill. 

Browne  apparently  wearied  of  his  efforts  to  amuse 
Lady  Geoghegan,  and  set  himself  to  obtain  amuse- 
ment at  her  expense.  Taking  the  objectionable  low- 
necked  dress  as  a  starting-point,  he  entered  upon  a 
disquisition  about  women's  clothes.  He  displayed  a 
knowledge  of  the  subject  which  at  first  surprised,  and 
then  rather  disgusted,  Lady  Geoghegan.  He  by  no 
means  confined  his  remarks  to  such  parts  of  a  lady's 
attire  as  are  meant  to  be  visible  to  the  public  eye. 
He  watched  the  growing  discomfort  of  his  hostess 
with  evident  pleasure.  O'Neill  fumed  impotently.  It 
was  perfectly  impossible  to  stop  the  man,  nor  was  it 


THE  SEETHING  POT  209 

easy  to  say  at  what  exact  point  he  became  objection- 
able. He  passed  by  an  easy  transition  from  the  frills 
of  a  fashionable  lady's  petticoats  to  the  purple  flannel 
of  the  Mayo  peasant  girls.  His  description  of  the 
charm  of  their  costume  involved  him  in  an  apprecia- 
tion of  the  girl  whom  he  had  seen  carrying  turf.  He 
began  with  her  feet,  gave  his  impressions  of  her 
ankles,  and  was  proceeding  to  illustrate  with  a  dessert- 
knife  on  the  table-cloth  the  curve  of  the  calf  of 
her  leg,  when  Lady  Geoghegan  seized  a  chance  of 
withdrawing. 

'  I  hope,'  said  Browne,  with  a  satisfied  smile,  '  that 
I  have  not  outraged  Lady  Geoghegan's  sense  of 
propriety.' 

O'Neill  looked  him  up  and  down  slowly. 

1  You've  made,'  he  said  deliberately,  '  the  most 
disgusting  attempt  I've  ever  come  across  at  a  most 
objectionable  form  of  cleverness.' 

Sir  Gerald  interposed  hurriedly.  He  felt  angry 
with  O'Xeill.  He  had  not  heard  the  provocation,  and 
the  remark  struck  him  as  an  unmannerly  attack  upon 
a  fellow-guest. 

'  I  was  reading  the  other  day,  Mr.  Browne,  an 
article  of  yours  upon  a  portrait  of  a  young  girl  in  the 
Dresden  Gallery.  Tell  me,  why  do  you  say  that  the 
whole  interest  of  the  picture  centres  in  the  light  which 
falls  upon  the  child's  shoes  ?' 

Browne  seemed  quite  unmoved  by  O'Neill's  attack 
upon  him.  He  replied : 

'  It  seems  to  me  that  the  attention  of  the  critic 

14 


210  THE  SEETHING  POT 

must  inevitably  be  drawn  to  that  ray  of  light  and  its 
exquisite  reflection  from  the  satin  shoe.  The  play  of 
light  upon  a  fabric  like  satin  has  been  very  imperfectly 
appreciated  even  by  the  greatest  artists.  Where  it  is 
dealt  with  truly,  the  eye  is  caught  and  held  by  it.  In 
the  case  you  mention  I  found  it  impossible  to  feel 
anything  except  the  splendid  technique  in  the  handling 
of  the  child's  shoes.' 

'  I  should  have  imagined,  from  your  conversation,' 
said  O'Neill,  'that  your  attention  would  have  been 
fixed  on  the  frills  of  her  drawers.  But  perhaps 
these  weren't  visible.  I  haven't  seen  the  picture 
myself.' 

Browne  flushed  slightly;  otherwise  he  seemed  to 
resent  O'Neill's  insult  far  less  than  Sir  Gerald  did. 
It  was  he  who  broke  the  awkward  silence  by  sug- 
gesting that  they  might  carry  their  coffee  into  the 
drawing-room  and  ask  Lady  Geoghegan  to  sing  to 
them. 

Hester  complained  to  her  husband  afterwards  about 
Dennis  Browne's  conversation. 

'He  is  the  most  objectionable  man  I  ever  met/ 
she  said.  'He  took  a  delight  in  tormenting  me  at 
dinner.' 

'  What  did  he  say  ?'  said  Sir  Gerald. 

'It  wasn't  anything  he  said.  It  was  what  I  was 
always  afraid  he  was  just  going  to  say.  Indeed, 
it  wasn't  quite  that,  either.  It  was  because  I  felt 
that  I  ought  not  to  be  thinking  of  what  he  was 
going  to  say.  Remember,  Gerald,  if  he  is  to  stay 


THE  SEETHING  POT  211 

here,  I  simply  won't  stop  in  the  room  alone  with 
him.' 

'  I  wish  I'd  heard  him.  Of  course,  I  was  talking  to 
Mrs.  O'Neill  all  through  dinner.' 

'  I  wish  you  had ;  but  I  dare  say  you  wouldn't  have 
understood  how  bad  it  was  for  me,  even  if  you  had 
heard  it.' 

'  O'Neill  seemed  to  understand.' 

'  Did  he  ?'  said  Hester,  flushing.  '  What  did  he 
say?' 

'He  snubbed  Browne  after  you  and  Mrs.  O'Neill 
had  gone.  He  was  what  I  should  call  savagely  rude. 
He  couldn't  have  been  worse  if  Browne  had  been  the 
Chief  Secretary  for  Ireland.' 

'I'm  glad,'  said  Hester.  'I  hope  he'll  do  it 
again.' 

'  I'm  bound  to  say  Browne  didn't  seem  to  mind.  I 
should  have  shied  a  decanter  at  a  man  who  talked 
that  way  to  me.' 


14—2 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  sensation  which  the  famine  created  began  to 
subside,  and  visitors  from  England  became  rarer. 
Those  who  were  not  really  poor  ceased  to  clamour 
for  doles  of  Indian  corn.  Sir  Gerald  began  to  think 
over  the  meaning  of  what  he  had  seen  of  the  real 
condition  of  the  people.  Most  of  the  members  of 
the  relief  committee  had  got  tired  of  their  work,  and 
he  sometimes  found  himself  alone  with  Father  Fahy 
at  the  meetings  in  the  court-house. 

He  was  surprised  to  discover  how  entirely  honest 
the  priest  was  hi  the  work  of  distribution.  Other 
members  of  the  committee,  shop-keepers  or  elected 
members  of  local  boards,  had  pressed  the  claims  of 
their  customers  or  constituents.  For  Father  Fahy 
poverty,  and  only  poverty,  constituted  a  claim  for 
relief.  Sir  Gerald  began  to  feel  drawn  to  the  man. 
There  was  no  mistaking  his  genuine  sympathy  with 
the  almost  hopeless  poverty  of  a  section  of  his 
parishioners.  They  had  many  long  talks  together, 
and  Sir  Gerald  came  to  see  that,  whatever  unreality 
there  might  be  about  the  periodical  cries  of  famine, 

212 


THE  SEETHING  POT  213 

the  normal  poverty  of  the  people  was  appalling,  and 
quite  indisputable. 

It  came  on  him  as  a  revelation  that  there  were 
families  on  his  estate  who  could  afford  to  buy  no  food 
except  Indian  meal  for  a  portion  of  every  year.  He 
was  horrified  at  the  thought  that  these  people  paid 
him  rent.  He  spoke  to  Hester  about  his  feelings, 
but  these  things  appealed  less  strongly  to  her 
imagination  than  to  his.  She  was  sorry  for  the 
people,  and  ready  to  help  them  if  she  could ;  but  she 
had  grown  up  with  such  facts  before  her  eyes.  He 
consulted  John  O'Neill,  and  received  in  return  a 
lecture  on  the  economic  problems  which  lay  before  aa 
Irish  Parliament,  when  such  a  thing  existed.  For 
the  present,  poverty  must  be  regarded  as  one  of  the 
deplorable  results  of  English  government,  and  inevitr 
able  until  that  great  cause  of  all  evil  ceased  to  exist 
The  priest  alone  seemed  able  to  enter  into  Sir  Gerald's 
feelings.  Unfortunately,  Father  Fahy's  suggestions 
threw  him  back  on  his  grazing-lands  and  the  new 
farms — the  problem  which  he  thought  O'Neill  had 
comfortably  solved  for  him. 

'  What  the  people  want,'  the  priest  said  to  him 
again  and  again,  '  is  more  land.  They  are  willing 
and  able  to  support  themselves,  but  they  must  have 
land.' 

Sir  Gerald  knew  very  well  that  the  plan  for  di*. 
tributing  his  land  was  carefully  calculated  to  exclude 
the  very  people  to  whom  the  acquisition  of  more  land 
was  the  first  necessity  of  all.  It  is  likely  that  he 


214  THE  SEETHING  POT 

would  have  yielded  to  Father  Fahy,  and  attempted 
to  settle  the  very  poorest  of  his  tenants  on  the  new 
farms,  if  a  rapid  development  of  the  political  situation 
had  not  broken  for  a  time  his  friendship  with  the 
priest.  Indeed,  the  general  slackening  of  interest  in 
the  famine,  no  doubt  hi  any  case  inevitable,  was 
hastened  by  the  ripening  of  what  promised  to  be  an 
exciting  crisis. 

It  is  curious  to  notice  how  events  which  take  place 
in  very  distant  places,  and  as  the  result  of  purely 
local  conditions,  often  affect  the  history  of  peoples 
who  have  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  them,  and 
make  or  spoil  the  lives  of  individuals  in  no  way 
connected  with  any  country  except  their  own. 

That  a  Continental  Government  should  enforce 
certain  oppressive  laws  against  the  members  of  Re- 
ligious Orders  would  seem  a  thing  sufficiently  remote 
from  Irish  politics.  Yet,  through  the  working  of 
complicated  connecting  causes,  the  attack  upon  the 
French  monks  and  nuns  changed  the  course  of  Irish 
agitation,  closed  the  career  of  a  great  Irish  leader^ 
and  altered  the  life,  among  others,  of  an  obscure 
Irish  country  gentleman. 

Acute  minds  among  the  clergy  and  the  politicians 
had  long  foreseen  that  a  struggle  between  O'Neill  and 
the  Church  was  inevitable.  It  had  become  apparent, 
as  we  have  seen,  that  the  contest  was  imminent,  and 
that  its  immediate  occasion  was  likely  to  be  found  in 
the  English  policy  about  the  foreign  Orders.  The 
monks,  when  the  laws  of  their  own  country  became 


THE  SEETHING  POT  215 

intolerable,  fled  to.  England.  This  in  itself  would 
have  been  unimportant,  and  hardly  interesting,  but 
the  English  Nonconformist  ministers  seized  upon  it 
as  an  opportunity  for  the  half-political,  half-religious 
oratory  in  which  they  rejoice.  The  almost  blameless 
administration  of  a  popular  Government  had  long 
condemned  these  men  to  an  impotent  silence,  and 
they  joyfully  broke  out  into  a  cry  that  England  was 
being  made  Catholic  without  knowing  it.  Their  con- 
gregations, previously  blasd  and  apathetic,  were 
galvanized  into  vitality.  Public  meetings  were  got 
up  during  the  summer,  and  the  Government  was 
called  upon  to  enforce  certain  obsolete  laws  against 
the  Jesuits  and  others.  The  newspapers  devoted 
leading  articles  to  the  subject.  Irresponsible  members 
of  the  Opposition,  hoping  for  the  best,  took  up  the 
cry.  During  the  early  part  of  the  autumn  there  was 
a  by-election  in  Mickleham,  a  town  with  a  strong 
Nonconformist  electorate.  Some  enthusiast  started 
the  idea  of  registering  the  names  of  Protestants  who 
were  prepared  to  suffer  imprisonment  rather  than 
allow  the  Jesuits  to  overrun  England.  He  called  his 
register  the  '  Golden  Hero  Roll.'  The  title  sounded 
well,  and,  as  it  was  quite  impossible  for  anyone  to 
be  imprisoned  whatever  came  of  the  controversy, 
Protestants  sent  in  their  names  by  thousands.  The 
leaders  of  the  Opposition  began  to  think  that  some- 
thing might  be  made  of  the  agitation,  and  flung 
themselves  into  the  struggle.  Nonconformist  ministers 
of  inferior  calibre  succeeded  in  making  the  general 


216  THE  SEETHING  POT 

confusion  worse  by  mixing  up  the  English  Ritualists 
with  the  Jesuits.  The  electors  of  Mickleham  were 
bewildered,  but  enthusiastic.  They  returned  a  '  Golden 
Hero  '  by  .an  immense  majority. 

The  Nonconformists  were  jubilant,  and  the  agitation 
gathered  force.  Certain  supporters  of  the  Government 
who  sat  for  particularly  Protestant  constituencies  were 
threatened.  The  '  Golden  Hero  Roll '  was  flourished 
in  their  faces.  They  finally  agreed  to  support  the 
Opposition  in  compelling  the  Government  to  deal  with 
— by  this  time  no  one  knew  exactly  whether  it  was  the 
Jesuits,  the  Ritualists,  or  the  Pope  himself,  who  was  to 
be  dealt  with.  One  thing  only  was  quite  clear :  the 
British  Lion  was  roused,  and  roared  exceedingly. 
Certainly  he  meant  to  eat  someone,  and  the  Govern- 
ment began  to  feel  that  they  were  likely  to  be  the 
victims.  Cabinet  Ministers  returning  from  their 
holidays  met  each  other  with  anxious  faces.  In  Sep- 
tember it  would  have  been  possible  to  talk  sense  and 
be  listened  to.  In  November  something  might  still 
have  been  done.  By  the  end  of  December  it  was 
quite  impossible  to  reason  with  anybody.  No  one 
knew  better  than  the  Prime  Minister  how  quickly  the 
agitation  would  subside,  if  only  the  next  session  could 
be  tided  over.  He  looked  round  for  help.  It  occurred 
to  him  that  Ireland  was  Roman  Catholic.  Clearly,  it 
was  Ireland's  duty  to  support  the  Government  in  the 
emergency. 

There  was  an  awkwardness  about  approaching  the 
Irish  Party.  The  Government  had  allowed  itself  to 


THE  SEETHING  POT  217 

be  cajoled  by  certain  great  Anglo-Irish  lords  into 
suspending  the  ordinary  criminal  law,  and  imprisoning 
ten  Irish  members  of  Parliament  under  the  provisions 
of  an  arbitrary  Crimes  Act.  The  Right  Honourable 
Mr.  Chesney  represented  to  the  Cabinet  the  extreme 
difficulty  of  negotiating  with  John  O'Neill  while  his 
followers  were  dribbling  back  to  him  one  by  one  from 
their  various  prisons.  The  Cabinet  recognised  the 
difficulty  the  more  readily  as  they  were  aware  that 
John  O'Neill  was  not  likely  to  be  bought  with  anything 
short  of  a  Home  Rule  -Bill,  and  the  Anglo-Irish  lords 
would  not  hear  of  such  a  thing. 

It  remained  possible  to  negotiate  with  the  Roman 
Catholic  Bishops.  They  and  their  priests  were  always 
supposed  to  possess  unlimited  power  in  Ireland.  This 
was  their  opportunity  for  using  it  to  good  purpose. 
The  Bishops,  on  their  side,  owned  to  wanting  some- 
thing from  the  Government.  The  Prime  Minister  was 
in  a  yielding  mood.  He  was  prepared  to  concede 
anything  so  long  as  he  was  not  obliged  to  proclaim 
from  the  house-tops  that  he  was  supporting  Roman 
Catholicism.  The  Bishops  hinted  at  a  University, 
Mr.  Chesney  demurred. 

'  At  some  future  time,'  he  said,  '  I  shall  be  de- 
lighted to  press  your  most  reasonable  demand;  but 
at  present — you  really  must  consider  the  very  excited 
state  of  English  public  opinion.' 

There  was,  however,  a  question  about  the  payment 
for  children  in  industrial  schools.  There  was  the 
possibility  of  securing  a  Government  subsidy  for  a 


218  THE  SEETHING  POT 

great  teaching  Order.  There  were  grants  in  contem- 
plation for  technical  education  which  might  be  guided 
into  the  treasury  of  the  Church.  Mr.  Chesney  hinted 
at  pleasant  things.  The  Bishops  appeared  to  be 
satisfied.  The  Government  felt  easier,  for  with  the 
help  of  a  solid  phalanx  of  Irish  votes  they  could  afford 
to  laugh  at  the  Opposition,  '  Golden  Heroes '  and  all. 
There  was  only  one  point  still  doubtful.  Would  John 
O'Neill  be  guided  by  the  Bishops  ?  Nobody  knew, 
and  nobody  seemed  able  to  find  out.  If  the  worst 
came  to  the  worst,  could  John  O'Neill's  followers  be 
detached,  and  induced  to  support  the  Government  ? 
Nobody  knew  this,  either,  but  the  Bishops  determined 
to  try. 

It  was  at  this  stage  of  the  drama  that  Sir  Gerald 
returned  home  and  picked  up  the  thread  of  events. 
There  was  a  pause  while  philanthropists  ran  riot  in 
the  Press  over  the  famine.  It  seemed  at  first  as  if  the 
agitation  against  the  Government  was  going  to  fizzle 
out.  O'Neill  knew  better.  He  looked  anxious  and 
worried,  in  spite  of  his  enjoyment  of  Sir  John  Harri- 
son's conversation.  He  talked  freely  to  Sir  Gerald 
about  the  prospects  of  the  future,  but  was  quite 
determined  to  keep  his  intentions  secret  from  the 
public  up  to  the  last  possible  moment. 

'  It's  for  them  to  make  the  game,'  he  said.  '  I 
shall  wait  for  their  next  move,  and  see  what  it  is 
like.' 

He  had  not  long  to  wait.  One  morning  Sir  Gerald 
found  him  reading  an  appeal  published  by  an  eminent 


THE  SEETHING  POT  219 

English  Cardinal  soliciting  the  help  of  the  Irish 
members  against  the  forces  of  Protestantism  and 
atheism. 

'  He's  very  sweet  to  us  now,'  said  O'Neill.  '  Yon'ld 
hardly  believe  that  two  years  ago  that  very  man  was 
intriguing  at  the  Vatican  to  secure  a  condemnation  of 
the  League.  The  English  Roman  Catholics  are  the 
worst  enemies  Ireland  has.' 

'  Will  you  publish  any  reply  ?'  asked  Sir  Gerald. 

'  No,'  said  O'Neill.  '  I  shall  hold  a  meeting  of  my 
party  in  Dublin  before  the  opening  of  Parliament. 
We  shall  decide  then  what  our  tactics  are  to  be,  or, 
rather,  I  shall  tell  the  men  how  they  are  to  vote.  He 
can  find  out  by  watching  us  afterwards  what  my 
answer  is  to  his  appeal.' 

In  the  course  of  the  next  few  weeks  one  after 
another  of  the  Irish  Bishops  published  his  views  on 
the  situation.  They  were  absolutely  unanimous: 
the  Irish  members  must  support  the  Government. 
It  was  a  Church  question,  and  Ireland  was  a  Catholic 
nation.  There  was  even  a  striking  similarity  in  the 
wording  of  the  pronouncements.  O'Neill  made  no 
public  reply.  In  private  he  railed  against  the 
Bishops'  assumption  of  a  right  to  control  his  actions. 

1  These  priests,'  he  said,  '  are  so  puffed  up  with 
English  flattery  and  bloated  with  English  money  that 
they  are  beginning  to  think  they  own  Ireland.  I  am 
perfectly  willing  to  admit  that  they  helped  us  in  the 
past — up  to  a  certain  point.  Latterly  they  have  been 
got  at  and  bribed.  After  all,  too,  the  Church  is 


220  THE  SEETHING  POT 

essentially  on  the  side  of  conservatism,  and  I  suppose 
we  are  more  or  less  revolutionaries.' 

Excitement  in  Ireland  rose  to  fever  heat.  The 
newspapers  almost  daily  demanded  from  O'Neill  a 
declaration  of  his  policy.  Among  pious  Roman 
Catholics  there  were  mutterings,  which  made  them- 
selves audible  in  letters  to  the  Press,  generally 
anonymous.  The  fitness  of  having  a  Protestant 
leader  of  an  Irish  Party  was  freely  canvassed.  In  the 
North  the  Orangemen  were  joyful,  but  perplexed. 
There  seemed  every  prospect  of  a  stand-up  fight 
between  O'Neill  and  the  priests.  This  would  be  a 
glorious  and  quite  unhoped-for  event.  Their  joy  was 
only  marred  by  a  doubt  as  to  which  side  ought  to 
command  their  sympathy.  O'Neill  was  a  bitter 
enemy  of  their  beloved  union  with  England.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  priests  were  priests.  One  morning  a 
leading  clerical  paper  declared  that  O'Neill  had  made 
up  his  mind  to  vote  against  the  Government.  It  pro- 
fessed to  have  the  news  on  quite  unimpeachable 
authority.  There  followed  a  long  article  calling  upon 
all  Catholic  Nationalists  to  desert  their  leader  and 
rally  round  the  Church.  O'Neill,  the  writer  said, 
owed  his  position  to  the  extreme  left  wing  of  the 
Irish  Party.  He  was  the  hero  of  the  Fenian  party,  of 
the  physical  force  men,  of  the  perpetrators  of  outrages. 
Unless  the  country  was  to  be  plunged  back  again  into 
the  chaos  of  crime  from  which  she  had  so  recently 
emerged,  O'Neill's  power  must  be  broken,  and  broken 
decisively. 


THE  SEETHING  POT 

John  O'Neill  himself  received  the  article  with  a 
sneer. 

'  The  worst  of  fighting  against  priests,'  he  said,  '  is 
that  they  are  absolutely  devoid  of  any  sense  of  honour. 
I  never  met  an  ecclesiastic  yet  who  hesitated  about 
hitting  below  the  belt  if  he  thought  he  would  gain 
by  it.' 

Sir  Gerald  was  anxious  about  the  effect  of  the 
article  on  the  country. 

'  I'm  afraid,'  he  said,  '  that  it  is  likely  to  do  you 
serious  injury.' 

In  the  evening  of  the  day  on  which  it  appeared,  the 
O'Neills  dined  at  Clogher  House.  The  effect  of  the 
article  formed  almost  the  only  subject  of  conversation. 
O'Neill,  in  spite  of  his  efforts  to  carry  the  matter 
bravely,  was  evidently  despondent  at  the  turn  things 
were  taking. 

'  I  always  told  you,'  he  said, '  that  the  priests  would 
fight  me  and  beat  me  in  the  end.  I  didn't  think  the 
crisis  would  have  come  so  soon.' 

'  Are  you  sure,'  asked  Sir  Gerald,  '  that  they  will 
beat  you  now  ?' 

'  I  am  not  certain,'  said  O'Neill ;  '  I  can't  be  until 
after  the  meeting  of  the  party  next  week.  I  told  you 
the  meeting  was  to  be  next  week,  didn't  I  ?  We  shall 
see  then;  but  I  am  very  doubtful  if  my  men  will 
follow  me.' 

'  I  am  very  doubtful,'  said  Mrs.  O'Neill,  '  whether  it 
is  wise  to  make  the  fight  now.  You  seem  to  me  to  be 
giving  them  a  great  advantage  over  you.  They  are  in 


222 

the  right  at  present.  The  whole  English  agitation  is 
an  absurdity,  and,  of  course,  the  Government  ought 
to  be  supported.  I  mean  to  say,  if  I  was  English  I 
should  certainly  support  it.  Wouldn't  it  be  better  to 
wait  until  you  have  got  the  priests  in  the  wrong,  and 
then  fight  them  ?' 

'  It's  not  a  question  of  right  or  wrong  at  all,'  said 
O'Neill ;  '  it's  a  matter  of  politics.' 

'  Surely,'  said  Hester,  '  even  in  politics '  She 

hesitated.  It  was  not  often  that  she  joined  in  the 
discussions  which  she  heard,  and  now  what  she 
meant  to  say  seemed  to  be  too  bold. 

'  I  know  what  you  mean,'  said  Mrs.  O'Neill.  '  It 
would  be  all  very  simple  if  one  had  only  to  find  out 
which  side  was  in  the  right  on  any  question,  and 
then  vote  with  it.  But  so  many  other  things 
come  in.' 

'  But,'  said  Hester,  '  ought  you  ever  to  join  the  side 
which  you  know  is  wrong  ?' 

'  You've  got,'  said  O'Neill,  '  to  join  the  side,  as  you 
call  it,  which  is  likely  to  give  Ireland  her  indepen- 
dence. Right  and  wrong  have  simply  nothing  to  do 
with  the  matter.' 

'  Except  this,'  said  Sir  Gerald — '  and  I  think  this  is 
what  Mrs.  O'Neill  meant  a  while  ago — that  there's  a 
certain  advantage  in  being  in  the  right.  You  are  less 
likely  to  be  beaten  when  you  have  right  on  your  side. 
I  agree  with  Mrs.  O'Neill  in  thinking  it  a  mistake  to 
fight  the  priests  on  this  particular  question.' 

'  Well,  you're  mistaken,'  said  O'Neill,  '  both  of  you. 


THE  SEETHING  POT  223 

You  think  I  am  forcing  on  the  fight :  I'm  not.  I 
must  fight,  or  else  surrender  on  terms  that  will  leave 
me  the  obedient  servant  of  the  Church  for  the  rest  of 
my  career.  Besides,  I  owe  this  Government  some- 
thing. What  did  they  want  to  shut  up  my  men  in 
prison  for  ?  They  were  not  hurting  anyone.' 

'  If  that's  all  that's  in  your  mind,'  said  Mrs.  O'Neill 
quietly,  'you  had  better  give  in  at  once.  There's 
nothing  to  be  got  for  Ireland  by  gratifying  your 
desire  for  revenge  on  one  particular  English  party.' 

'  But  that's  not  all.  I  have  a  chance  now  of 
snatching  the  great  prize,  a  chance  I  may  never  get 
again.  If  I  can  beat  this  Government,  and  the 
Opposition  win  at  the  General  Election,  they  will 
have  to  give  me  what  I  want.  I  am  not  fighting  the 
Government,  or  the  priests,  or  anyone  else,  for  a 
small  thing.  I'm  fighting  for  the  freedom  of  Ireland ; 
and  I  have  it  in  the  hollow  of  my  hand,  if  I  win  just 
this  one  battle.' 

'  But,'  said  Sir  Gerald,  '  what  would  be  the  good  of 
an  independent  Ireland  if  the  priests  are  to  rule  it  ? 
You  said  yourself  that  they  would  beat  you  in  the 
end.  I  think  that  I  would  rather  be  governed  by 
England  than  Home.' 

'  That,'  said  O'Neill,  '  is  the!  miserable  mistake 
which  has  made  Unionists  of  nine-tenths  of  the 
Protestants  of  Ireland.  They  are  afraid  national 
independence  would  mean  priestly  rule.  There  never 
was  a  stupider  blunder.  The  priests  might  rule  an 
independent  Ireland  for  five  years.  They  would 


THE  SEETHING  POT 

never  guide  so  much  as  a  County  Council  after  that. 
What  gives  the  priests  their  power  to-day  is  the 
unnatural  alliance  they  made  fifty  years  ago  with  the 
forces  that  are  working  for  freedom  and  nationality. 
The  confederacy  is  already  breaking  up,  and  can't 
survive  the  first  independent  Irish  Parliament.  The 
Church  must  fall  back  into  its  proper  place  as  a  great 
anti-national  and  tyrannical  power.' 

'  If  you're  right,'  said  Sir  Gerald, '  things  are  rather 
topsy-turvy  at  present.' 

'  They  are,'  said  O'Neill.  '  I  doubt  if  the  world  has 
ever  seen  a  similar  situation.  Protestants,  in  spite  of 
their  Protestantism,  are  bent  on  maintaining  an  un- 
constitutional and  arbitrary  power.  Catholics,  in  the 
face  of  every  tradition  of  Catholicism,  are  making  a 
revolution.  The  thing  is  such  an  obvious  absurdity 
that  any  man  with  common-sense  ought  to  be  able  to 
see  that  it  can't  last.' 

'  When  things  disentangle  themselves,'  said  Hester, 
'  perhaps  it  will  be  easier  to  do  simply  what  is  right 
in  politics.  It  seems  to  me  as  if  it  ought  somehow  to 
be  possible.' 

'  My  dear  lady,'  said  John  O'Neill,  '  if  I  win  this 
battle,  then  ten  years  hence,  when  your  husband  is 
governing  Ireland,  you  may  talk  to  him  about  right 
and  wrong,  and  if  he  listens  to  you  this  will  be  a 
happy  country.  If  I'm  beaten,  then  perhaps  when 
you  are  an  old,  old  woman  you  can  preach  it  to  your 
grandson  ;  for  if  we  miss  this  chance  neither  we  nor 
our  children  will  see  Ireland  free.  In  any  case, 


THE  SEETHING  POT  225 

there's  no  use  talking  about  right  and  wrong  to 
me.  My  position  is  that  of  the  primitive  savage.  A 
refined  morality  would  be  my  destruction.' 

After  the  O'Neills  left  them,  Sir  Gerald  and  Hester 
sat  and  talked  together. 

'  I  wonder,  Gerald,'  she  said,  '  whether,  after  all, 
Mr.  O'Neill's  way  of  working  is  the  best  one.  Doesn't 
it  seem  to  you  sometimes  not  to  be  very  noble  ?' 

'I  know  what  you  mean,'  said  Sir  Gerald.  'It's 
what  your  father  and  Mr.  Godfrey  said  to  me.  He  is 
an  unscrupulous  man.  But  I  don't  think  that  the 
men  who  do  great  things  in  the  world  can  keep  their 
hands  clean.' 

'  It  wasn't  the  way  your  father  worked.  He  kept 
his  hands  clean,  as  you  call  it.  Not  even  his  enemies 
could  ever  say  of  him  that  he  did  one  base  or  crooked 
thing.' 

'  That  is  true ;  but,  then,  you  must  remember  that 
he  failed.' 

'  Do  you  think  that  Mr.  O'Neill  will  succeed  ?' 

*  No,'  said  Sir  Gerald, '  I  don't.  He  has  a  wonderful 
strength  and  influence,  but  I'm  afraid  that  this  time 
he  will  be  beaten.' 

'  If  he  is,'  said  Hester,  '  I  think  it  will  break  his 
heart.' 


15 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

JOHN  O'NEILL  by  no  means  underrated  the  power  of 
the  Church  or  the  influence  of  the  respectable  and 
timid  section  of  the  Nationalist  Party.  Yet  he  retained 
a  hope  that  whatever  the  ultimate  issue  of  the  struggle 
might  be,  he  would  succeed  in  dictating  their  im- 
mediate policy  to  the  present  members  of  his  party. 
Experience  confirmed  him  in  his  belief  that  his  own 
power  was  supreme.  Individuals  had  sometimes 
kicked  against  his  orders.  Sometimes  one  malcontent 
or  another  had  resigned  his  seat  in  Parliament  as  a 
protest  against  O'Neill's  dictatorship.  Such  revolts 
had  always  proved  impotent.  The  rebels  had  either 
come  back  to  their  allegiance  or  had  disappeared 
completely  from  Irish  political  life.  Once  or  twice 
there  had  been  something  like  an  organized  attempt 
to  break  his  power,  but  he  had  never  had  any  real 
cause  for  anxiety.  The  party  contained  men  of  con- 
siderable ability,  brilliant  speakers,  good  organizers, 
and  bold  speculators,  but  it  contained  no  one  who  was 
the  equal  of  John  O'Neill  in  strength  of  will  and 
tenacity  of  purpose.  Even  with  a  popular  audience, 
his  singular  capacity  for  narrowing  a  controversy  to 

226 


THE  SEETHING  POT  227 

its  really  essential  point,  and  keeping  attention  fixed 
on  that,  prevailed  over  great  oratorical  displays.  No 
one  in  his  party  possessed  as  O'Neill  did  the  inex- 
plicable power  of  ruling  others.  The  secret  of  this 
power  is  a  mystery,  which  we  only  push  further 
back  when  we  speak  of  it  as  the  result  of  a  great 
personality. 

It  was  upon  his  own  determination,  his  own  clear- 
headedness, and,  above  all,  on  this  personality,  that 
O'Neill  relied  for  victory  in  the  battle  that  lay  before 
him.  He  failed  to  realize  that  the  men  whom  he  had 
whipped  to  heel  so  often  in  the  past  could  ever 
succeed  in  breaking  free  from  his  control.  It  was  not 
until  the  very  morning  before  the  meeting  of  the 
party  hi  Dublin  that  his  self-confidence  was  really 
shaken.  Michael  McCarty  called  on  him  while  he 
was  busy  over  some  notes  of  his  next  day's  speech. 
At  all  times  O'Neill  was  impatient  of  interruption. 
Coming  from  a  man  like  McCarty,  and  at  a  moment 
of  strain  and  anxiety,  it  was  to  him  simply  in- 
tolerable. He  looked  up  from  his  writing  with  a 
frown. 

'  Unless  you  have  something  very  important  to  tell 
me,'  he  said,  '  I  wish  you  would  go  away.  I  am  un- 
commonly busy.' 

At  no  previous  time  would  McCarty  have  ventured 
to  stand  his  ground  after  such  a  reception.  On  this 
occasion  lie  seemed  to  have  discovered  somewhere 
in  the  recesses  of  his  soul  a  small  power  of  self- 
assertion. 

15—2 


228  THE  SEETHING  POT 

'  What  I  want  to  say  is  important,'  he  answered. 

Apparently  O'Neill  did  not  believe  him,  for  he 
pushed  back  his  writing  with  an  impatient  sigh. 
His  manner  was  that  of  a  man  who,  like  St.  Paul's 
friends  at  Corinth,  '  suffers  fools,'  but  is  determined 
not  to  do  so  with  any  appearance  of  gladness. 

'  Go  on,'  he  said ;  '  but  for  goodness'  sake  be  as 
quick  as  you  can.' 

McCarty's  new-found  courage  seemed  to  be  failing 
him.  He  began  in  a  tone  of  apology : 

'I've  been  a  member  of  your  party  now  for  more 
than  ten  years.  I  can  never  tell  you  how  thankful  I 
am  to  you  for  taking  me  up  and  putting  me  into 
Parliament.' 

'You  can  skip  all  that,'  said  O'Neill.  'I've  no 
doubt  your  feelings  are  most  creditable,  but  I  don't 
want  to  be  told  about  them  now.' 

'  I  hope,'  said  McCarty, '  that  I've  been  of  some  use 
to  you.  I  never  went  against  anything  you  said,  or 
disobeyed  any  order  you  gave.' 

O'Neill  fiddled  impatiently  with  his  pen,  and  drew 
his  papers  to  him  as  if  he  meant  to  resume  his 
writing. 

'  If  you  want  your  allowance  increased,'  he  said,  '  it 
can't  be  done.  The  funds  won't  run  to  it.1 

'  It's  nothing  of  that  sort  at  all,'  said  McCarty. 
'  Of  course,  I  couldn't  have  gone  to  Parliament  with- 
out the  allowance.  I  am  a  poor  man ;  but  I'm 
satisfied  with  what  I  get.  I  can  do  well  enough.' 

He  paused,  and  stood  before  O'Neill  twisting  his 


THE  SEETHING  POT  229 

fingers  together  and  shifting  his  weight  from  one 
foot  to  the  other.  He  was  like  a  schoolboy  in  search 
of  an  excuse  to  save  him  from  an  apparently  inevitable 
caning.  At  last  he  made  a  plunge. 

'  I'm  a  Catholic,'  he  said,  and  then  stopped  again. 

'  Bless  my  soul !  Get  on,'  said  O'Neill.  '  I  know 
well  enough  you're  a  Catholic.  You  are  not  thinking 
of  turning  Protestant,  are  you,  or  becoming  a  Buddhist 
or  anything  eccentric  ?  For  goodness'  sake,  don't  con- 
sult me  about  your  soul.  Go  to  a  priest  or  a  mahatma, 
or  someone  of  that  sort.' 

McCarty  suddenly  lost  his  temper.  Like  most 
weak  men,  he  found  in  passion  courage  to  say  things 
which  in  cooler  moments  would  have  been  not  only 
impossible  to  utter,  but  almost  unthinkable. 

'  Curse  you  and  damn  you  !  You  treat  us  as  if  we 
were  your  slaves  or  your  dogs!  You  bully  us  and 
insult  us  !  You — you  tyrant !' 

He  clenched  his  fists  and  took  a  step  forward,  as  if 
he  meant  to  strike  O'Neill.  His  face  glowed  and  his 
nostrils  dilated.  On  his  temples  a  pulse  throbbed  so 
violently  that  the  skin  rose  and  fell  in  visible  waves 
above  it.  O'Neill  watched  him  curiously.  He  leant 
back  in  his  chair,  and  a  smile,  half  of  amusement, 
half  of  contempt,  crept  out  from  the  corners  of  his 
mouth. 

'  Hadn't  you  better  keep  that  sort  of  thing  for  the 
House  of  Commons  ?'  he  said.  '  You  could  get  your- 
self quite  gloriously  suspended  for  less  than  that. 
Just  think — "  Here  the  honourable  member  became 


230  THE  SEETHING  POT 

quite  inaudible,  and  remained  shaking  his  fist  at  the 
Prime  Minister  until  removed  by  the  Serjeant-at-Anns 
and  four  policemen."  It's  rather  a  pity  to  waste 
a  scene  of  this  kind  on  an  audience  of  one,  with  no 
reporters  present.' 

In  reality  the  scene  was  full  of  pathos.  A  man  of 
the  world,  cool,  cynical,  and  indifferent,  lay  back  in 
his  chair  and  sneered.  A  peasant,  passionate  like 
a  child,  humiliated  and  goaded  beyond  endurance, 
furiously  conscious  of  his  own  impotence,  gasped  in  a 
fruitless  search  for  words,  and  shook  his  fists  in  the 
air.  Some  feeling  of  pity  seemed  at  last  to  touch 
O'Neill.  He  sat  up,  and  said  almost  kindly : 

'  Go  on,  man.  I  don't  want  to  insult  you.  Only 
do  let  us  get  to  whatever  it  is  you  want  to  say.' 

McCarty's  passion  vanished  suddenly — as  suddenly 
as  it  had  arisen. 

'  Mr.  O'Neill,  forgive  me  for  what  I  said.  I  didn't 
mean  it.' 

'  I'll  forgive  you  for  any  blessed  thing  you  like,' 
said  O'Neill,  '  if  only  you  will  get  to  the  point.' 

McCarty's  voice  became  gentle  and  pleading. 

'  Don't  tell  us  to  vote  against  the  Government.' 

O'Neill  stared  at  him  without  speaking. 

'  I  can't  do  it,'  McCarty  went  on,  '  and  there's  more 
than  me  that  can't.  It  will  break  up  the  party  if  you 
try  to  force  us.  Indeed  it  will ;  and  there's  some  that 
will  be  glad  enough  to  see  it  broken  up.' 

'  I  dare  say  there  are/  said  O'Neill ;  '  but  surely 
you  are  not  fools  enough  to  listen  to  them  ?' 


THE  SEETHING  POT 

'No,  no,'  said  McCarty.  'The  most  of  us  would 
rather  follow  you,  but  we  can't.' 

'I  see.  You've  been  got  at  by  your  priests.  I 
don't  suppose  that  it  is  much  use  arguing  with  you, 
but  just  remember  this  :  the  Government  you  want  to 
support  put  you  in  prison  a  few  months  ago.  Its 
followers  have  hooted  us  out  of  the  House  of  Commons. 
Its  officers  have  refused  us  the  right  of  addressing 
our  constituents.  You  said  a  minute  ago  that  I 
bullied  you.  Did  I  ever  bully  and  insult  you  as  this 
Government  has  done  ?' 

'  I  know — I  know  all  that,'  said  McCarty.  '  I'ld 
vote  against  them  in  anything  but  this.  You  don't 
understand,  Mr.  O'Neill.  You're  a  Protestant,  and  of 
course  we  don't  expect  you  to  understand.  We  must 
support  the  Government.' 

'  How  many  of  you  are  going  to  desert  me  ?' 

'  I  don't  know,'  said  McCarty,  '  but  I  think  most  of 
the  members.  It  is  all  settled.  Everybody  knows 
about  it  except  you.  Won't  you  think  about  it,  sir  ? 
Don't  ask  us  to  vote  against  the  Church.  We'll  all 
stand  by  you  in  anything  else  you  like,  if  you  will  go 
our  way  this  time.' 

'  I  won't  go  your  way,'  said  O'Neill.  '  Let  your 
mind  be  quite  clear  about  that.  I'm  not  going  to  be 
tied  to  the  apron-strings  of  your  Bishops.  If  you  like 
to  sell  me,  you  can.  I  hope  you'll  get  a  better  price 
out  of  your  priests  than  your  own  miserable  souls.' 

McCarty  completely  broke  down. 

'  Oh  !'  he  moaned.      '  Oh !  I  would  have  followed 


THE  SEETHING  POT 

you.  I  would  have  gone  to  the  world's  end  for  you. 
Oh,  holy  Mary  !  but  I  loved  you,  and  now  you're 
saying  that  I  have  sold  you.' 

'  You  have  sold  me,'  said  O'Neill ;  *  but  that  is 
nothing.  You  must  understand  what  you  have  done. 
You  have  sold  Ireland.  If  your  priest  promised  you 
heaven  for  doing  it,  I  think  that  the  recollection 
of  your  bargain  will  make  heaven  itself  as  bitter  to 
your  soul  as  hell.  Now  go.' 

McCarty  went  out  cowed  and  trembling.  The  wet 
west  wind  buffeted  him  as  he  closed  the  door  behind 
him.  He  walked  back  towards  Clogher  soaked  and 
miserable.  It  is  not  possible  to  think  that  it  was  his 
religion  which  had  forced  him  to  desert  his  leader. 
Men  who  act  religiously  find  a  joy  and  a  strength 
even  when  their  way  is  hard.  McCarty  only  moaned 
over  to  himself:  '  I  couldn't  do  other — I  couldn't  do 
other.'  It  is  not  possible,  either,  to  call  the  motive 
power  which  drove  him  superstition.  He  had  not 
acted  out  of  fear  of  hell  or  hope  of  heaven.  Simply 
an  instinct  of  obedience,  his  heritage  from  generations 
of  Roman  Catholic  peasant  fathers,  strengthened  by  a 
Catholic  education  in  a  Catholic  atmosphere,  had  left 
it  impossible  for  him  to  set  his  own  will  against  the 
voice  of  his  Church.  Perhaps  such  obedience  is  the 
highest  of  all  virtues,  because  it  does  not  bring  with  it 
even  the  reward  of  spiritual  exaltation. 

The  mere  fact  of  knowing  that  he  was  going  to  be 
beaten  never  prevented  John  O'Neill  from  fighting  his 
best.  For  ten  years  he  had  been  fighting  battles  IB 


THE  SEETHING  POT  233 

the  House  of  Commons.  In  every  battle  his  defeat 
was  a  foregone  conclusion.  He  and  his  followers  had 
been  laughed  at  by  the  British  public.  The  cartoon- 
ists of  the  papers  which  Englishmen  imagine  to  be 
comic  had  worked  his  features  into  various  impossible 
contortions.  Gradually  the  laughter  had  given  way 
to  irritation.  The  sympathetic  artists  conceived  a 
being  which  might  have  passed  for  one  of  Swift's 
Yahoos,  endowed  it  with  O'Neill's  face,  and,  to  pre- 
vent misunderstanding,  labelled  it  '  The  Irish  Party.' 
The  irritation  was  succeeded  by  a  deep  and  serious 
hatred.  John  O'Neill  and  his  followers  were  cursed 
freely  and  frequently  by  both  the  great  English  parties. 
Special  rules  were  made  for  defeating  their  tactics  in 
Parliament.  Special  laws  were  passed  which  enabled 
official  people  to  put  them  in  prison  for  making 
speeches  in  Ireland.  Every  man's  hand  was  against 
them,  and  their  hands  were  against  everything 
English.  Never  once  had  O'Neill's  heart  failed  him. 
Neither  ridicule,  invective,  nor  force  turned  him  from 
the  way  he  chose  to  go.  Now,  even  the  certainty  that 
the  majority  of  his  own  followers  was  against  him  did 
not  cow  him.  He  went  up  to  Dublin  determined  to 
fight  his  own  battle  to  the  last. 

The  meeting  was  a  private  one.  Neither  reporters 
nor  the  general  public  were  allowed  to  be  present. 
But  the  members  of  the  party  formed  by  themselves 
a  respectable  audience.  O'Neill  took  the  chair,  and 
opened  the  proceedings  with  a  short  and  lucid  sketch 
of  the  political  situation.  The  Government,  he  said, 


234,  THE  SEETHING  POT 

was  doomed  unless  it  received  the  support  of  the 
Irish  members.  The  Opposition  had  already  ap- 
proached him  with  an  offer  of  a  separate  legislative 
assembly  for  Ireland.  The  details  of  the  scheme 
were  as  yet  unsettled,  but  he  had  no  doubt  that  if  the 
Opposition  came  into  office  a  Bill  would  be  passed 
which  would  go  some  way  towards  satisfying  the 
Irish  people.  Under  the  circumstances,  the  policy 
of  the  Irish  Party  was  perfectly  clear.  They  must 
secure  the  defeat  of  the  Government  by  as  large  a 
majority  as  possible. 

A  leading  member  of  the  party,  Daniel  O'Rourke, 
followed  O'Neill.  O'Rourke  had  the  reputation  of 
being  the  most  brilliant  orator  of  the  party.  It  was 
clear  that  on  the  present  occasion  he  meant  to  make 
full  use  of  his  powers.  His  speech  was  in  every  way 
a  marked  contrast  to  his  chiefs.  His  resonant  tones 
followed  O'Neill's  like  organ  music  after  the  jangling 
of  a  cracked  bell.  He  elevated,  or  said  he  elevated, 
the  question  of  their  policy  from  the  low  level  of 
expediency  to  the  bracing  tableland  of  principle. 
Ireland  was  a  Catholic  country.  She  returned  mem- 
bers to  Parliament  pledged  to  the  defence  and  advance- 
ment of  everything  Irish,  but  bound,  also,  to  support 
the  Church.  He  denied  that  the  two  claims  could 
ever  come  into  conflict.  The  cause  of  the  Church 
was  the  cause  of  Ireland.  He  closed  his  speech  with 
a  highly  poetical  appeal  to  his  hearers  to  reject 
O'Neill's  advice  and  throw  the  weight  of  their  votes 
on  to  the  side  of  religion  and  Catholicism. 


THE  SEETHING  POT  235 

Long  before  he  had  finished  speaking,  it  became 
evident  that  the  sympathy  of  the  majority  was  with 
what  he  said.  One  after  another  the  leading  members 
of  the  party  stood  up  and  declared  their  intention  of 
siding  with  O'Rourke.  No  single  voice  was  raised  on 
O'Neill's  behalf.  More  than  two  hours  had  been 
spent  in  oratory,  when  O'Neill  rose  again. 

'Let  me  remind  you,  gentlemen,'  he  said,  'that 
you  are  only  the  representatives  of  the  Irish  people. 
On  a  question  of  such  importance,  it  is  only  right 
that  we  should  take  the  opinion  of  the  people  them- 
selves. I  propose  that  the  whole  matter  be  laid 
before  a  mass  meeting  of  the  Dublin  Nationalists  to- 
morrow night.' 

It  was  an  astute  suggestion.  The  Dublin  populace 
are  notoriously  impatient  of  clerical  control.  It  was 
certain  that  a  meeting  such  as  he  proposed  would 
support  O'Neill  against  an  alliance  of  the  priests  and 
the  English  Government.  O'Rourke  and  his  friends 
held  a  hurried  consultation  in  whispers.  To  accept 
O'Neill's  proposal  meant  being  hooted  from  the  plat- 
form ;  to  reject  it  would  be  interpreted  as  an  admission 
that  the  country  generally  was  against  them.  O'Neill 
looked  round  the  room  while  he  waited  for  O'Rourke's 
answer.  He  noticed  a  little  group  of  young  men  who 
had  drawn  together  apart  from  the  rest  of  the  meeting. 
They  were  listening  to  one  of  their  number,  who  spoke 
eagerly  in  low  tones.  O'Neill  recognised  him  at  once, 
His  name  was  Patrick  O'Dwyer.  He  was  the  repre- 
sentative of  a  small  town  which  was  well  known  to  be 


236  THE  SEETHING  POT 

a  centre  of  revolutionary  ideas,  and  even  of  plots  for 
open  rebellion.  O'Dwyer  himself  was  more  than 
suspected  of  being  a  member  of  a  great  secret 
society.  For  the  first  time  since  he  entered  the 
room,  O'Neill  felt  a  gleam  of  hope.  He  saw  that 
he  was  not  to  be  left  to  fight  his  battle  entirely 
alone. 

The  whispered  consultation  between  O'Rourke  and 
his  friends  came  to  an  end. 

'  I  think,  sir,'  he  said,  '  that  your  proposal  of  an 
appeal  to  the  people  is  entirely  reasonable.  It  is  one 
which  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  oppose.  But  why 
should  we  confine  the  appeal  to  the  people  of  Dublin  ? 
Would  it  not  be  better  to  organize  a  series  of  meetings 
throughout  the  country,  and  let  each  member  lay  the 
matter  before  his  own  constituents  ?' 

The  meaning  of  the  proposal  was  plain  enough. 
O'Neill  and  O'Rourke  both  knew  that,  though  the 
question  might  be  freely  discussed  in  Dublin,  the 
country  voters  would  simply  follow  their  priests. 

'  Mr.  O'Rourke's  proposal,'  said  O'Neill, '  although  no 
doubt  in  itself  good,  is,  unfortunately,  not  at  present 
practicable.  Parliament  reassembles  the  day  after 
to-morrow.  We  might  hold  a  meeting  to-morrow 
night  in  Dublin.  It  is  not  possible  to  hold  a  series 
of  meetings  in  the  country.' 

For  the  first  time  O'Neill's  remarks  were  greeted 
with  applause.  O'Rourke  looked  round  him  angrily. 
He  was  met  with  a  fixed  stare  by  O'Dwyer,  who  led 
the  cheers  of  his  little  circle  of  friends.  O'Rourke 


THE  SEETHING  POT  237 

rose  to  his  feet  again.  His  manner  had  lost  its  first 
note  of  triumph.  His  oratory  was  no  longer  flam- 
boyant. He  spoke  suavely,  like  a  shopman  who 
urges  the  purchase  of  desirable  goods  on  a  willing 
customer. 

'You  will  no  doubt,  sir,'  he  said,  addressing  O'Neill, 
'  have  read  an  article  which  appeared  recently  in  one 
of  our  leading  daily  papers,  in  which  it  was  stated 
that  you  depended  for  your  position  of  leader  on  the 
extreme  left  wing  of  our  party — that  you  were,  in  fact, 
the  representative  of  the  secret  societies  which  unfor- 
tunately exist  among  our  people.  I  regard  such  a 
suggestion  as  entirely  unfounded.  For  my  own  part, 
I  should  require  no  denial  of  the  charge  from  you. 
For  the  sake  of  the  general  public,  however,  both  here 
and  across  the  Channel,  I  ask  you  to  make  a  public 
disavowal  of  any  sympathy  with  the  revolutionary 
section  of  our  party.  We  shall  be  perfectly  willing 
to  meet  the  mass  of  the  Dublin  Nationalists  to- 
morrow ' — he  turned  from  O'Neill,  and  looked  at 
O'Dwyer  and  his  friends — 'if  we  may  announce  to 
them  that  our  leader  condemns  all  secret  societies, 
and  will  accept  no  help  from  men  whom  I  can  only 
call  desperately  and  criminally  foolish.' 

O'Dwyer  sprang  to  his  feet.  His  face  was  blazing 
with  excitement. 

'  I  protest,'  he  said,  '  against  Mr.  O'Rourke's 
language  and  against  his  sentiments.  I  am  a  member 
of  Parliament ;  but  not  because  I  have  any  faith  in 
constitutional  agitation,  for  I  believe,  in  my  heart, 


238  THE  SEETHING  POT 

that  it  is  as  useless  to-day  as  it  has  always  been.  I 
claim  to  speak  for  men  in  Ireland  who  are  tired  of 
talk,  sick  to  death  of  windbags  like  O'Rourke  and  the 
cowards  who  are  willing  to  lick  the  boots  of  English 
statesmen  at  the  bidding  of  the  priests.  We  have 
gone  to  Westminster  because  we  believe  in  John 
O'Neill,  and  are  willing  to  give  his  policy  a  chance. 
We  believe  that  he  is  a  true  man,  and  we  are  ready 
to  go  with  him,  for  a  while,  even  into  the  foreign 
Parliament  which  we  hate  and  despise.  You  may 
denounce  us,  gentlemen,  if  you  like,  but  we  believe 
that  Ireland's  ultimate  appeal  against  tyranny  must 
be  to  the  sword.  You  may  denounce  us  if  you  like. 
We  care  nothing  for  you  or  the  likes  of  you ;  but  if 
you  refuse  to  follow  O'Neill,  we  refuse  to  follow  you. 
You  will  have  us  to  reckon  with  and  to  fight.' 

O'Rourke  rose  again. 

'  I  refrain,'  he  said,  '  from  commenting  on  the 
outrageous  vanity  and  egoism  of  the  speech  of  this 
quite  unknown  member  of  our  party.  It  seems  to 
have  been  conceived  in  the  vein  of  the  bombastic 
heroes  of  the  cabbage-garden  rebellion  of  '48.  I  return 
to  the  point,  and  ask  our  chairman  whether  he  is 
willing  to  give  us  a  public  assurance  that  he  is  not  in 
sympathy  with  Mr.  O'Dwyer's  secret  societies  and  his 
policy  of  crime.' 

'  My  own  opinion,'  said  O'Neill,  '  of  what  is  called 
the  policy  of  physical  force  is  obvious.  I  should  not 
be  the  leader  of  a  Parliamentary  party  unless  I  believed 
that  what  Ireland  wants  can  be  secured  by  constitu- 


THE  SEETHING  POT  289 

tional  means.  Until  I  am  convinced  that  this  belief 
is  unfounded,  I  shall  not  commit  myself  to  an  approval 
of  the  last  and,  as  it  seems  to  me,  the  hopeless  appeal 
to  arms.  At  the  same  time,  I  am  not  prepared  to 
denounce  those  who  think  differently.  I  am  not 
prepared  to  condemn  their  societies — for  this  reason 
if  no  other,  that  I  have  no  wish  to  help  the  English 
in  their  task  of  governing  Ireland.  I  am  glad  that 
their  way  should  be  made  hard  for  them  by  any 
persons  and  by  almost  any  means.' 

'  Then,'  shouted  O'Rourke,  '  we  refuse  to  allow 
your  appeal  to  the  Dublin  mob.  Publish  our  refusal 
if  you  like.  Make  what  capital  you  can  out  of  it 
Beat  us  at  the  polls  if  you  can.  But  here  we  beat  you. 
The  Irish  Party  will  support  the  Government.  We 
shall  be  loyal  to  the  Church.' 

O'Neill  looked  round  him  slowly,  as  he  rose  once 
more  to  his  feet.  His  face  was  gray,  and  seemed 
suddenly  to  have  grown  drawn  and  thin.  His  hands 
were  trembling.  He  steadied  them  by  leaning  heavily 
on  the  table  in  front  of  him.  Even  his  voice  seemed 
to  have  failed  him,  for  his  first  words  were  barely 
audible. 

'You  have  decided  to  betray  me.  Will  you  not 
think  again  before  it  is  too  late  ?  I  do  not  ask  you 
for  my  own  sake,  but  for  Ireland's.  You  know  that 
you  are  betraying  Ireland.' 

It  seemed  as  if  he  was  going  to  break  down  alto- 
gether. His  eyes  wandered  in  search  of  sympathetic 
faces  among  his  audience.  They  met  O'Rourke's 


240  THE  SEETHING  POT 

triumphant  sneer.  In  a  moment  O'Neill's  mouth 
hardened.  He  stood  upright,  and  his  voice  was  clear 
and  strong  again. 

'  I  ask — and  these  are  my  last  words  to  you — I  ask, 
What  are  you  going  to  get  for  your  betrayal  ?  Your 
priests  are  getting  what  priests  always  want,  and 
always  get — money.  That  is  very  well  for  them ;  but 
what  are  you  getting  ?  You  are  ready  to  be  traitors. 
Do  you  want  to  be  fools  as  well  ?  Will  you  sell  your 
country,  and  get  nothing  for  it  ?  Even  Judas  Iscariot 
got  thirty  pieces  of  silver  for  his  betrayal.  What  are 
you  going  to  get  ?' 

The  men  whom  he  taunted  could  bear  no  more. 
They  sprang  up  before  him,  threatening  him.  It 
seemed  as  if  nothing  could  prevent  their  beating 
him  down,  when  his  voice  rang  out  clear  above  their 
tumult : 

'  You  dogs !  Do  you  dare  to  yelp  about  my  heels 
and  snarl  at  me?  I  am  your  master  still.  Stand 
back  from  me !' 

Savagely  passionate  as  they  were,  they  shrank  back 
from  him,  and  he  passed  out. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  news  of  O'Neill's  defeat  at  the  meeting  of  his 
party  was  received  with  joy  by  his  political  opponents. 
Everyone  regarded,  or  affected  to  regard,  it  as  final. 
In  Ireland  the  landlord  party  believed  that  their  most 
dangerous  enemy  had  been  removed  from  the  political 
world.  They  congratulated  themselves  daily  on  the 
fact  that  the  fall  of  O'Neill  meant  the  impotence  of 
Nationalism  for  at  least  a  generation.  The  English 
Government  organs  were  jubilant.  The  defeat  which 
threatened  their  party  was  happily  averted,  and  they 
had  every  hope  that  the  whole  '  Golden  Hero '  agita- 
tion would  have  gone  the  way  of  other  imbecile 
enthusiasms  before  it  would  be  necessary  to  face  the 
country  at  a  General  Election.  Even  the  Noncon- 
formists were  relieved  and  felt  happier.  O'Neill 
was  not  a  pleasant  ally,  and  latterly  they  had 
begun  to  realize  that  he  was  likely  to  ask  rather 
too  high  a  price  for  his  help  in  defeating  the  Govern- 
ment. 

A  curious  feature  of  the  general  rejoicing  was  the 
unanimity  with  which  everyone  recognised  O'Neill's 
virtues  now  that  they  were  no  longer  afraid  of  him. 

241  16 


THE  SEETHING  POT 

Even  the  Irish  landlords  spoke  with  a  certain  respect 
of  his  ability  and  strength. 

Lord  Clonfert  met  Sir  Gerald  the  day  after  the 
news  of  the  defeat  arrived  in  Clogher.  He  made  a 
decent  effort  to  conceal  his  joy. 

'  Well,'  he  said,  '  so  O'Neill  is  beaten.  Of  course  I 
hate  his  politics :  I  always  did.  But,  after  all,  the 
man  has  some  of  the  instincts  of  a  gentleman  in  him. 
He  used  to  treat  those  fellows  of  his  properly.  He 
used  to  whip  them  to  heel  and  keep  them  there. 
But,  after  all,  what  could  he  expect  ?  If  a  man 
associates  all  his  life  with  the  lowest  sweeps  in  the 
country,  he  can't  expect  them  to  stand  by  him  at  a 
pinch.  He  might  have  known  that  scum  like  O'Rourke 
and  the  rest  of  them  would  turn  on  him  the  first 
chance  they  got.' 

'  It  was  a  shameful  business/  said  Sir  Gerald. 
'  It  makes  me  angry  to  think  of  it.  I  dare  say  you 
can  understand  that  there  was  a  great  deal  about 
O'Neill  and  his  ways  of  working  that  I  didn't  like. 
I  know  more  of  him  now  than  I  did  at  first,  and  I 
doubt  if  ever  I  should  have  cared  to  be  a  member  of 
his  party.  If  things  had  gone  right  with  him,  I 
should  have  kept  out  of  politics.  Now,  if  I  am  any 
use,  I  shall  stand  by  him.' 

'  I  don't  blame  you  for  that,'  said  Lord  Clonfert. 
'  I  should  do  the  same  in  your  position.  Besides,  I'd 
rather  O'Neill  had  a  following  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons. The  nearer  the  two  parties  of  Nationalists 
come  to  balancing  each  other,  the  more  chance  there 


THE  SEETHING  POT  243 

will  be  of  peace  and  quietness  for  decent  people.  I 
suppose  O'Neill  will  fight  it  out  now,  won't  he  ?  He's 
not  the  man  to  sit  down  under  the  decision  of  that 
meeting  in  Dublin.' 

'  I  suppose  he  will,'  said  Sir  Gerald.  '  But  things 
look  rather  hopeless  at  present.' 

Public  opinion  in  Clogher  itself  was  in  the  main 
sympathetic  with  O'Neill.  Father  Fahy  felt  obliged 
to  refrain  from  triumphing  openly.  He  succeeded 
without  much  difficulty  in  preventing  the  League 
from  expressing  any  opinion  about  the  new  national 
policy.  Most  of  the  members  were  anxious  to  avoid 
committing  themselves  until  they  were  certain,  in  the 
first  place,  that  there  were  to  be  two  sides,  and,  if  so, 
which  side  was  going  to  be  the  stronger.  Father 
Fahy  cherished  a  hope  that  O'Neill  might  be  con- 
tented to  drop  quietly  out  of  politics  altogether. 
He  could  then  have  afforded  to  be  generous,  and 
would  have  joined  in  a  hero-worship  of  the  lost 
leader. 

O'Neill  returned  to  Clogher  very  shortly  after  the 
Dublin  meeting.  Almost  the  first  thing  he  did  was  to 
call  on  Sir  Gerald  and  Lady  Geoghegan.  They  were 
shocked  to  see  the  change  which  his  few  days'  absence 
had  made  in  him.  He  looked  haggard  and  worn, 
like  a  man  who  has  just  emerged  from  a  severe 
illness. 

'  We  are  glad  to  see  you  back  again,'  said  Sir 
Gerald. 

He  felt  a  difficulty  about  offering  direct  sympathy  or 

16—2 


244  THE  SEETHING  POT 

alluding  to  the  defeat  in  Dublin.  O'Neill  himself  had 
no  shrinking  from  the  subject. 

'  They  went  back  on  me,'  he  said.  '  You  heard 
that,  of  course.  The  newspapers  have  been  full 
of  my  affairs.  They  make  a  mistake,  though, 
in  thinking  that  they  have  done  with  me  alto- 
gether.' 

'  We  were  very  sorry  to  hear  it,'  said  Lady 
Geoghegan.  '  I  would  like  you  to  know  that  no  one, 
except  your  wife  of  course,  feels  for  you  as  much  as 
we  do.' 

'  Thank  you,'  said  O'Neill.  '  It  is  good  to  hear 
things  like  that,  especially  from  people  like  you.  But 
I  don't  want  either  sympathy  or  pity.  I  didn't  come 
here  to  lament  over  my  fallen  fortunes.  I  am  going 
to  fight  it  out  with  O'Rourke  and  the  priests.  I  came 
to  talk  to  you  about  my  next  move.  Please  don't  go 
away,  Lady  Geoghegan.  I  would  like  you  to  hear 
what  I  have  got  to  say.' 

O'Neill  told  them  the  story  of  McCarty's  visit  to 
him  before  the  meeting. 

'  I  disliked  him,'  he  added,  '  for  the  evident  state  of 
funk  he  was  in.  I  disliked  him  still  more  for  the 
hysterical  kind  of  way  he  spoke.  I  thought  he  was  a 
hypocrite  when  he  said  he  was  sorry  to  oppose  me. 
It  turned  out  afterwards  I  was  wrong.' 

'I  don't  think  much,'  said  Hester,  'of  expressions 
of  sorrow  coming  from  a  man  who  means  to  do  you 
an  injury.' 

She  was  flushed   and   a   little  excited.     O'Neill's 


THE  SEETHING  POT  245 

appearance  and  the  recollection  of  what  he  had  been 
through  moved  her. 

'  Well,  nor  do  I,'  said  O'Neill.  '  But  the  human 
mind  is  a  queer  thing,  and  McCarty's  is  a  particularly 
queer  specimen.  I  don't  in  the  least  profess  to  under- 
stand him,  and  I  don't  want  to;  but  his  peculiar 
conscience  led  him  to  do  an  interesting  and  important 
thing.' 

'  Did  he  come  back  to  his  allegiance  ?'  asked  Sir 
Gerald.  '  I  could  understand  his  doing  that,  after  he 
had  seen  what  happened  at  the  meeting.' 

'Not  quite,'  said  O'Neill.  'But  he  called  at  my 
hotel  the  evening  after  the  meeting.  At  first  I  thought 
he  wanted  to  snivel,  and  tried  to  turn  him  out.  It 
appeared  that  what  he  really  wanted  was  to  let  me 
know  that  he  meant  to  resign  his  seat  in  Parliament. 
He  said  he  couldn't  follow  me,  but  that  he  wouldn't 
fight  against  me  either.' 

'Poor  man!'  said  Lady  Geoghegan.  'He  must 
have  gone  through  a  good  deal.' 

'  I  don't  see  why  he  is  to  be  pitied,'  said  O'Neill. 
'  Things  were  simple  enough  for  him.  Either  I  was 
right,  in  which  case  he  ought  to  have  stood  by  me, 
or  his  priests  were  right,  and  then  he  ought  to  have 
done  his  best  to  trample  on  me.  What  he  has  done 
is  to  try  and  make  an  impossible  kind  of  compromise. 
Any  way,  as  I  said  before,  McCarty  and  his  conscience 
don't  matter.  He  is  contemptible,  and  he  is  done 
with.  The  question  is,  Who  is  going  to  take  his 
place  ?' 


246  THE  SEETHING  POT 

O'Neill  looked  at  Sir  Gerald  and  then  at  Lady 
Geoghegan.  Both  of  them  guessed  what  was  coming 
next,  and  were  affected,  but  very  differently.  Lady 
Geoghegan  felt  a  sudden  hot  thrill  of  intense  excite- 
ment. She  flushed  deeply,  and  her  eyes  sparkled. 
Sir  Gerald  grew  slowly  numb.  His  face  lost  all 
expression.  He  sat  looking  vacantly  at  John  O'Neill. 
He  saw  clearly  before  him  the  prospect  of  a  choice 
that  he  dreaded.  He  realized  that  he  must  either 
plunge  himself  into  a  contest  where  he  had  small 
sympathy  with  either  side,  or  be  false  to  a  friend,  and 
that  in  the  moment  of  his  greatest  need. 

'  Of  course  I  shall  fight  for  the  seat,'  said  O'Neill. 
*  If  I  can  get  the  proper  man  as  my  nominee,  I  stand 
a  chance  of  beating  O'Rourke  and  the  priests.  With 
an  ordinary  candidate  I  should  have  no  hope  in  a 
constituency  like  this.  I  must  have  a  local  man, 
and  a  man  who  won't  be  afraid  of  the  priests.  I 
should  like  a  man  whose  position  will  command 
respect,  who  will  be  above  the  reproach  of  having 
been  hired.' 

Lady  Geoghegan  turned  to  him  eagerly : 

'  It  is  Gerald  that  you  want.  Oh,  how  splendid ! 
We  will  work  for  you,  and  we  shall  win.  I  know  we 
must  win.' 

John  O'Neill  looked  at  Sir  Gerald.  It  would  have 
been  better  if  the  outburst  had  come  from  him, 
but  he  sat  there,  curiously  impassive,  without 
speaking. 

'  It  is  you  that  I  want,'  said  O'Neill.     '  If  I  quoted 


THE  SEETHING  POT  247 

Scripture  like  your  friend  O'Hara,  I  should  say,  "  Thou 
art  the  man  !"  ' 

There  was  a  short  silence.  Hester  looked  in  wonder 
at  her  husband.  At  last  he  spoke : 

'  I  shall  do  what  you  want.  I  don't  expect  that  we 
shall  win.  It  is  not  clear  to  me  that  there  will  be  much 
gained  even  if  we  do.  Will  one  more  follower  be  any 
use  to  you  ?' 

'  No/  said  O'Neill.  '  One  more  would  be  no  use  to 
me,  but  a  Victory  here  and  now  would  be  everything. 
The  Irish  voters  are  very  highly  organized,  more  so 
than  any  in  the  kingdom.  Little  or  nothing  is  left  to 
the  individual.  We  may  reckon  that  they  will  all  go 
one  way.  It  is  always  so  when  organization  is  strong. 
If  we  win  here,  we  shall  give  the  rest  of  Ireland  the 
lead  it  wants.  We  shall  stand  a  good  chance  of  carry- 
ing the  League  with  us  everywhere.' 

'I  do  not  think  that  we  have  any  chance  of 
winning,'  said  Sir  Gerald.  '  I  am  a  very  poor  fighter. 
I  think  you  would  do  better  if  you  chose  some  other 
man.' 

'  How  can  you  talk  in  such  a  way,  Gerald  ?'  said 
Hester.  '  What  chance  have  we  of  winning  if  you  go 
into  the  fight  expecting  to  be  beaten  ?' 

'  There  is  no  other  man,'  said  O'Neill,  '  who 
would  have  the  slightest  chance.  It  is  you  or 
nobody.' 

'  What  are  we  to  do  ?'  said  Hester.  '  When  shall 
we  begin  ?' 

'  We  shall  begin  at  once,'  said  O'Neill.     '  We  have 


248  THE  SEETHING  POT 

this  advantage  over  O'Rourke  :  that  I  don't  think  he 
knows  yet  about  McCarty's  resignation.  We  can  have 
a  meeting  in  Clogher  on  Sunday  week.  I  shall  get 
down  O'Dwyer  to  speak.  I  can  certainly  count  on 
him  to  support  me.  Of  course  he  is  rather  an 
extreme  man.  He  may  say  outrageous  things.  But 
I  like  him.  He's  one  of  the  very  few  of  the  whole  set 
whom  1  respect.  He  never  took  a  penny  of  allowance 
from  our  funds.  I  found  out  one  time  that  he  was 
living  in  London  in  an  attic  on  one  meal  a  day,  and 
never  missed  a  division  in  the  House  when  I  wanted 
him.  It  was  as  much  as  I  could  do  to  get  him  to  dine 
with  me  twice  a  week  while  the  session  lasted.  I 
think  he  will  do  all  he  can  for  you,  Sir  Gerald.  He 
almost  worships  the  memory  of  your  father.  He  has 
him  in  a  frame  over  his  bed  along  with  Emmet  and 
Wolfe  Tone.' 

'Shall  we  have  him  stop  with  us?'  said  Lady 
Geoghegan.  *  I  should  so  much  like  to  make  friends 
with  him.' 

'  You  had  better  let  him  come  to  us,'  said  O'Neill. 
'  He  will  be  more  comfortable,  really.  Your  servants 
would  make  him  miserable.  I  don't  suppose  he's 
ever  had  a  dress-coat  in  his  life.' 

'  What  about  the  newspapers  ?'  said  Sir  Gerald. 

'Ah!  There  you  touch  our  weak  point,'  said 
O'Neill.  '  There  are  just  two  honest  National  papers 
in  Ireland.  One  is  your  friend  O'Hara's  Critic,  which 
really  doesn't  count  in  a  business  like  this ;  the  other  is 
The  Croppy,  and  it's  not  much  of  a  rag,  although  it  is 


THE  SEETHING  POT  249 

sound.  It's  a  penny  weekly,  and  has  no  great 
circulation.  The  rest  of  them,  dailies  and  weeklies, 
are  more  or  less  owned  or  run  by  the  priests.  I'm 
leaving  the  anti-Irish  papers  out  of  the  count.  I'll 
coerce  The  Connaught  News  man  into,  at  all  events, 
holding  his  tongue.  I'll  get  The  Croppy  to  do  us 
some  good  strong  articles,  and  we'll  circulate  it  free 
for  the  next  six  weeks.  That's  about  all  we  can  do. 
The  rest  of  the  papers  will  abuse  us  up  and  down, 
and,  of  course,  they'll  have  the  best  of  it  there.  One 
comfort  is,  that  twenty  per  cent,  of  the  electors 
can't  read,  so  a  good  deal  of  that  work  will  be 
wasted.' 

In  the  centre  of  the  fair-green  in  Clogher  there 
stands  a  recently-erected  statue.  As  a  work  of  art  it 
met  with  the  unqualified  contempt  of  Dennis  Browne. 
As  an  expression  of  popular  sentiment  it  was  remark- 
able. It  represented  Humbert,  the  French  General 
who  attempted  the  desperate  task  of  rescuing  Ireland 
from  English  rule.  One  brief  flicker  of  success  had 
rested  on  his  arms,  and  only  one.  Yet  he  has  become 
something  of  a  popular  hero,  and  his  poor  little 
victory  at  Castlebar  has  been  bragged  of  and  sung 
about  as  if  it  were  a  counterpoise  to  Aughrim  and  the 
ferocious  suppression  of  the  rebellion  in  Wexford.  It 
seemed  significant  to  Sir  Gerald  that  the  platform 
from  which  he  was  to  address  his  first  audience 
was  erected  beneath  this  statue.  The  shadow  of 
General  Humbert  would  fall  upon  him  while  he 
spoke. 


250  THE  SEETHING  POT 

It  came  home  to  him  that  he  was  engaged  to  work 
with  men  who  hated  not  only  England  and  her 
Parliament,  but  the  Empire  and  the  King.  He 
accepted  his  position  helplessly.  There  was  no  one 
to  whom  he  could  explain  himself — from  whom  he 
could  look  for  sympathy  or  comfort.  Hester  was 
excited  and  enthusiastic.  He  knew  that  she  would 
neither  listen  nor  attempt  to  understand.  Lord 
Clonfert  would,  indeed  could,  only  answer  his  com- 
plaints with  a  reminder  that  he  had  been  warned 
beforehand,  and  was  reaping  what  he  had  sowed. 
He  thought  of  O'Hara,  and  wished  for  his  presence  at 
Clogher.  It  occurred  to  him  that  he  might  write  to 
the  editor.  It  was  a  mere  chance  whether  he  got  an 
answer  at  all,  and  hi  all  probability  the  answer,  if  he 
did  get  it,  would  be  delayed  beyond  the  period  of 
possible  usefulness.  Yet  even  to  express  himself 
would  be  a  relief  to  him,  and  he  decided  to  write. 

Clogher  was  animated,  and  even  gay,  on  the  day  of 
Sir  Gerald's  meeting.  The  country  people  remained 
in  town  after  Mass.  Others  who  worshipped  at 
outlying  chapels  streamed  in  along  the  roads  all 
through  the  forenoon.  The  band  of  the  Temperance 
Sodality,  against  the  will  of  Father  Fahy,  paraded 
the  streets  and  played  the  inevitable  '  God  save 
Ireland.'  The  police  watched  helplessly  while 
publicans  drove  a  roaring  trade  with  bond  fide 
travellers. 

As  the  hour  of  the  meeting  drew  near,  the  crowds 
gravitated  towards  the  fair-green.  '  The  boys  '  were 


THE  SEETHING  POT  251 

evidently  in  high  good  -  humour.  They  cheered 
tumultuously  when  Sheid  Amoch,  with  a  few  other 
local  politicians,  ascended  the  platform.  O'Dwyer 
was  the  first  of  the  chief  personages  to  put  in  an 
appearance.  His  reception  was  more  doubtful.  He 
had  long  been  a  marked  man  as  one  who  was  '  agin' 
the  clergy,'  and  the  country  people  had  not  yet 
realized  that  it  was  from  his  platform  that  O'Neill 
was  going  to  appeal  to  them. 

Shortly  after  one  o'clock  Sir  Gerald's  carriage  drew 
up  on  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd.  O'Neill  was  with 
him.  Lady  Geoghegan  had  insisted  on  being  present, 
and  Mrs.  O'Neill,  who  rarely  attended  such  meetings, 
had  come  to  keep  her  in  countenance.  There  was  no 
mistake  about  the  warmth  of  their  reception.  The 
shouting  completely  drowned  the  band's  best  efforts 
at  a  welcoming  bray. 

O'Neill  looked  quickly  round  him  as  he  mounted 
the  platform. 

'  We've  done  very  well/  he  said  to  Sir  Gerald. 
'  We've  got  a  good  crowd.  There  are  reporters  here 
from  the  Dublin  papers,  and  we  ought  to  be  flattered 
at  the  number  of  police  they  have  drafted  into  the 
town  to  keep  us  in  order.'  He  touched  O'Dwyer  on 
the  shoulder.  '  You  see  those  two  men  just  below 
the  platform,  on  the  left.  I  know  them.  They  are 
shorthand  writers  from  the  Castle.  They  mean  to 
report  us  to  Chesney.  Be  careful  what  you 
say.' 

O'Dwyer  nodded,  but  it  was  plain  to  O'Neill  that  he 


252  THE  SEETHING  POT 

paid  little  heed  to  the  warning.  The  excitement  of 
the  crowds  and  the  cheering  had  mounted  to  his  brain, 
and  even  then  he  was  in  no  condition  to  measure  his 
words. 

O'Neill  was  the  first  to  speak.  The  moment  he  rose 
the  people  pressed  round  the  platform  to  hear  him. 
The  silence  was  so  complete  that  the  whimpering  of 
a  puppy  in  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd  was  plainly 
audible.  The  usual  relative  positions  of  speaker  and 
audience  were  reversed.  It  did  not  appear  that 
O'Neill  was  extremely  anxious  to  be  heard  or  that  the 
people  were  paying  him  a  compliment  by  listening. 
On  the  contrary,  the  audience  set  themselves  to  hear, 
as  if  each  word  were  life  or  death  to  them,  while 
O'Neill  seemed  wholly  indifferent  about  the  fate  of 
what  he  said.  He  made  no  appeal  to  emotion  or 
passion,  and  it  was  noticeable  that  he  was  hardly  ever 
interrupted  with  cheers.  He  flung  his  sentences  out 
from  him  at  the  crowd  as  if  they  were  missile  weapons 
meant  to  penetrate  the  mind.  In  his  whole  speech 
he  insisted  upon  only  one  point.  He  presented  it,  or 
thrust  it  forward,  time  after  time,  incisively,  irresistibly. 
'  O'Rourke  and  his  friends  have  made  an  alliance  with 
one  of  the  English  parties,  therefore  they  have  lost 
the  confidence  of  the  Irish  people.'  That  was  all  that 
O'Neill  said,  but  he  said  it  in  many  ways.  He  enforced 
the  necessary  sequence  of  his  '  therefore '  with  instances 
from  history,  bygone  and  contemporary.  Alliance 
with  England  always  had  meant  loss  for  Ireland.  It 
always  would.  Again  and  again  he  stated  his  facts, 


THE  SEETHING  POT  253 

and  drew  his  inference  in  language  so  nakedly  simple 
that  Sir  Gerald  came  to  long  for  some  single  adjective 
to  break  the  dead  monotony  of  the  demonstration ;  but 
there  was  none.  He  sat  down  after  a  final  repetition 
of  his  theme  :  '  O'Rourke  has  lost  the  confidence  of 
the  Irish  people.' 

Sir  Gerald  came  next.  The  crowd  cheered  him 
madly.  It  was  something  for  them  to  see  a  landlord, 
one  of  the  class  whom  they  had  learnt  to  regard  as 
their  natural  enemies,  standing  among  their  leaders, 
about  to  appeal  to  them  in  the  name  of  Ireland.  The 
very  novelty  of  the  thing  secured  a  silence  for  the 
opening  of  Sir  Gerald's  speech ;  but  he  could  not  use 
his  opportunity.  The  sea  of  upturned  faces  frightened 
him;  the  cheers  bewildered  him.  His  own  voice,  when 
lie  heard  it,  seemed  strange  and  remote.  His  first 
sentences  failed  altogether  to  reach  any  but  those  who 
were  nearest  to  him.  Still,  the  people  tried  to  hear 
him,  and  their  evident  friendliness  restored  him  some 
measure  of  self-confidence.  He  told  them  of  his  own 
early  love  for  Ireland,  of  his  desire  to  serve  her,  of  the 
perplexities  which  held  him  back,  of  the  difficulties  he 
still  saw  before  him.  The  crowd  failed  to  follow  or 
understand  him.  One  by  one  their  faces  were  turned 
from  him,  till  his  eyes  no  longer  met  other  eyes  fixed 
expectantly  on  his.  The  pressure  round  the  platform 
got  less,  as  men  on  the  outskirts  drew  away  and 
began  to  talk  to  each  other.  Sir  Gerald  noticed,  with 
a  feeling  of  despair,  that  the  reporters  had  ceased  to 
scribble  in  their  note-books.  What  he  said  was 


254  THE  SEETHING  POT 

evidently  unimportant.  He  struggled  on  to  the  end 
of  the  speech  he  had  prepared,  and  then  sat  down. 
He  glanced  timidly  at  O'Neill. 

'  I  have  failed,'  he  said. 

'Yes,'  he  said,  'badly.  Never  mind.  O'Dwyer 
will  pull  them  together,  and,  after  all,  speaking  isn't 
everything.' 

'  O'Dwyer's  task  was  a  hard  one,  for  he  had  to  win 
back  the  attention  of  a  crowd  which  had  grown  tired 
of  being  talked  to,  and  was  ill-inclined  to  listen  to 
anyone.  At  the  very  beginning  of  his  speech  he 
plunged  into  excited  rhetoric.  He  gesticulated  wildly, 
flinging  his  body  forwards  and  jerking  it  back  sud- 
denly, reaching  out  with  his  hands  to  the  people  at 
one  moment,  casting  hands  and  arms  together  over 
his  head  the  next.  He  shamelessly  shouted  ancient 
catchwords,  roared  out  phrases  battered  with  long 
use.  The  whole  seemed  a  very  caricature  of  mob 
oratory.  Sir  Gerald  shrank  back  in  his  chair  ashamed. 
Soon  he  realized  that  behind  the  shouting  and  the 
posturing  there  lay  something  real,  that  the  man 
actually  meant  what  his  bombast  implied,  that  the 
catchwords  were  as  real  to  him  as  to  the  men  who 
used  them  first.  The  crowd,  too,  had  begun  to  listen, 
and  to  cheer  occasionally.  Quotations,  tattered  out 
of  the  possibility  of  recognition  by  years  of  ignoble 
use,  caught  again  from  O'Dwyer  a  power  of  moving 
men.  A  wild  burst  of  cheering  greeted  a  version  of 
the  thousand  times  repeated  'The  West's  awake.' 
Sir  Gerald  seemed  almost  to  see  the  muscles  of  men's 


THE  SEETHING  POT  255 

limbs  stiffen  under  them  when  O'Dwyer's  voice  rang 
out  with  the  prayer  that  Ireland  might  be  'A  nation 
once  again.'  The  speaker  had  gripped  his  audience 
and  held  them.  O'Neill  smiled,  but  anxiously.  It 
remained  to  be  seen  whether  O'Dwyer  could  hold 
himself.  The  Castle  reporters  were  busy  with  their 
note-books. 

'  What  claim  has  Sir  Gerald  Geoghegan  on  your 
votes  ?  Does  he  claim  them  as  your  landlord  ?  As  a 
gentleman  ?  No,  for  the  ancient  tyrannies  are  broken. 
The  time  for  such  claims  is  gone.  Is  it  likely  that 
your  great  leader,  John  O'Neill,  wants  to  sell  you 
again  into  captivity,  now  when  you  are  standing  on 
the  very  borders  of  the  promised  land  ?  But  what 
claim  has  he  on  your  votes  ?  Are  you  to  support 
him  because  he  is  rich,  because  he  is  able  to  give 
great  sums  to  the  party  treasury,  can  pay  men  to  go 
to  Westminster  and  vote  with  him  ?  We  leave  such 
appeals  to  O'Rourke,  with  his  traitors  and  his  priests, 
the  men  who  have  sold  themselves  and  Ireland  for  a 
bribe.  Sir  Gerald  Geoghegan  is  rich,  but  it  is  in 
spite  of  his  riches,  not  because  of  them,  that  we 
ask  you  to  support  him.  We  want  no  rich  men  to 
pay  us  for  saving  Ireland.  What  claim,  then,  has  he 
on  your  votes  ?' 

He  paused ;  then  suddenly  there  poured  from  him 
a  torrent  of  impassioned  words.  He  described  the 
career  of  Gerald  Geoghegan,  '  the  rebel,'  step  by  step 
till  he  brought  him  to  the  court-house  in  Clonmel. 
Cheer  after  cheer  greeted  the  climax  of  the  story 


256  THE  SEETHING  POT 

Sir  Gerald  himself  felt  the  excitement  tingling  through 
his  veins.  He,  too,  rose  and  cheered.  O'Dwyer  lost 
all  self-control.  He  seized  Sir  Gerald  by  the  arm  and 
dragged  him  forward. 

'  We  ask  you  to  vote  for  him,'  he  cried,  '  because  he 
is  the  son  of  such  a  man ;  because  he  will  not  fear  to 
go  the  way  his  father  went ;  because  we  are  sick  of 
politicians  and  priests  who  prate  and  cant  of  law  and 
wder ;  because  it  is  time  to  have  done  with  those  who 
talk,  and  then  sell  their  own  souls  and  Ireland's  liberty; 
because  henceforth  we  mean  to  fight  England  with  the 
only  weapons  that  have  ever  conquered  tyranny.' 


CHAPTER  XX 

O'NEILL  and  his  wife  sat  late  that  evening  discussing 
the  meeting  and  the  speeches. 

'  I  am  sorry  that  Sir  Gerald  failed,'  said  O'Neill 
'  However,  things  might  have  been  worse.  O'Dwyer 
did  well  afterwards.  After  all,  speaking  is  a  difficult 
thing,  and  it  was  his  first  attempt.  I  dare  say  he 
will  do  better  at  Ross  on  Tuesday — that  is  to  say,  tf 
there  is  a  meeting  at  Ross.' 

'  Why  do  you  say  "  if  "  ?'  asked  his  wife.  '  I  thought 
the  Ross  meeting  was  settled.' 

'  It  is  settled  so  far  as  we  can  settle  it.  But  yott 
must  not  forget  that  we  have  the  Government  to 
reckon  with.  I've  no  doubt  that  O'Dwyer's  speech, 
will  ruffle  Chesney  a  bit  when  he  reads  it.  I've  knows 
meetings  proclaimed  for  less  than  what  he  said, 
to-day.' 

'  But  surely  they  will  not  venture  to  stop  you  in  a 
case  like  this  !  Why,  it  is  practically  a  contest  between 
you  and  their  own  supporters.  Public  opinion  would 
never  allow  them.' 

'  My  dear  Lucy,  you  appear  to  forget  that  you 
are  living  in  Ireland.  What  on  earth  has  public 

257  17 


258  THE  SEETHING  POT 

opinion  got  to  do  with  the  actions  of  our  Govern- 
ment ?  Besides,  you  know,  O'Dwyer  really  did 
pitch  it  pretty  high  to-day.  He  talked  rank  rebel- 
lion.' 

'  I  know  he  did/  said  Mrs.  O'Neill.  '  I  don't  think 
Sir  Gerald  liked  it.  He  was  excited,  of  course,  at  the 
tune.  I  was  excited  myself,  and  Lady  Geoghegan  was 
beside  herself.  But  he  was  uneasy  afterwards.  I 
watched  him  while  we  were  driving  home.  No  man 
would  like  to  be  committed  to  the  sort  of  thing 
O'Dwyer  said  to-day.  Are  you  taking  him  with  you 
to  Ross  ?' 

'  Of  course  I  am.  I  fetched  him  down  to  make 
speeches,  and  I'm  not  going  to  waste  his  time.  Besides, 
the  Ross  meeting  will  be  an  important  one  if  they  let 
us  hold  it.  Tuesday  is  a  big  fair  day  there,  and  we 
shall  get  all  the  farmers/ 

'  I  should  not  wonder  if  Sir  Gerald  makes  some 
sort  of  protest,'  said  Mrs,  O'Neill ;  '  I  don't  think  he 
will  stand  another  of  O'Dwyer's  speeches.' 

'  In  that  case  I  hope  they  will  proclaim  the  meeting. 
I've  known  a  good  many  sentimental  Loyalists  get 
wicked  when  they  found  themselves  being  bullied  by 
the  police.  Sir  Gerald  won't  be  so  peaceable  when 
he  has  been  hustled  off  a  platform  and  had  his  hat 
blocked  by  the  "  hirelings  of  the  oppressor,"  as 
O'Dwyer  calls  them.' 

The  next  morning  brought  the  fulfilment  of  Mrs. 
O'Neill's  prophecy.  Sir  Gerald  wrote  protesting 
against  the  line  which  O'Dwyer  had  takea  He 


THE  SEETHING  POT  259 

declined  to  allow  himself  to  be  identified  with  whatj 
he  described  as  sedition. 

O'Neill  showed  the  letter  to  his  wife  when  she  came 
into  his  study. 

'  You  were  right,'  he  said.  '  Now,  I  wonder  how 
Lady  Geoghegan  feels  about  the  matter,' 

'  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?'  asked  his  wife. 

'Here's  my  answer.' 

'  DEAR  SIR  GERALD  '  (she  read), 

'  O'Dwyer  is  advertised  to  speak  at  Ross  on 
Tuesday,  and  of  course  must  do  so.  I  hope  that 
nothing  will  prevent  your  going  there  with  us.  I 
have  ordered  a  waggonette  from  the  hotel  to  take  us 
over,  and  shall  have  a  seat  for  you.  It  would  be  a 
pity  to  keep  your  horses  out  all  day.  We  start  at 
one  o'clock  sharp.  We  can  discuss  your  difficulties 
afterwards.' 

'  Do  you  think  that  will  do  ?'  asked  Mr&  O'Neill— 
'  I  mean,  with  a  man  like  Sir  Gerald  V 

4 1  think  it  will.  He's  weak,  Lucy ;  you  know  that 
as  well  as  I  do.  He's  no  real  good.  He'll  boggle  and 
shy  at  the  first  fence  we  put  him  at ;  but  I  must  have 
him.  He's  the  only  candidate  that  will  give  me  a 
chance  of  winning  this  election,  and  it's  sink  or  swim 
with  me  here.  If  I  lose  this  seat,  I  am  likely  to  be 
beaten  altogether.' 

O'Neill  rested  his  elbow  on  the  table  as  he  spoke. 
His  hand  stroked  his  forehead  upwards  rapidly  and 

17—2 


260  THE  SEETHING  POT 

repeatedly,  as  if  trying  to  smooth  out  the  wrinkles 
that  gathered  there.  His  eyes  were  half  closed. 
In  spite  of  his  vigorous  words,  he  seemed  like  a  man 
who  was  weary  and  despondent. 

'  I  wish,'  he  said,  '  you  would  go  over  there  this 
afternoon  and  see  Lady  Geoghegan.  I  hate  asking 
you  to  do  things  of  this  kind  for  me.  But  you  might 
get  a  chance  of  talking  the  matter  over  with  her,  and 
getting  her  to  persuade  her  husband  to  go  with  us 
on  Tuesday.  You  will  know  the  best  way  to  go 
about  a  job  of  the  kind.  After  all,  it's  not  a  very 
fine  thing  for  him  to  desert  me  now,  just  when  the 
hounds  have  so  nearly  pulled  me  down.  Will  you 
go,  Lucy  ?' 

'  Of  course  I  will.' 

She  stooped  and  kissed  him  before  she  left.  He 
looked  up  at  her  with  a  queer  dumb  gratitude  in  his 
eyes. 

Her  task  was  a  very  easy  one.  Perhaps  Hester  was 
really  braver  than  her  husband,  or  perhaps  she  only 
half  appreciated  the  meaning  of  what  O'Dwyer  had 
said.  Certainly  she  was  far  more  excited  than 
frightened,  and  readily  promised  to  do  all  in  her 
power  to  persuade  Sir  Gerald  to  go  on. 

Tuesday  dawned  stormy  and  wet.  As  the  day 
went  on  the  wind  died  down,  leaving  a  heavy  blanket 
of  clouds  to  empty  themselves  in  a  dreary  persistent 
downpour.  Sir  Gerald  found  O'Neill  depressed  and 
silent.  He  coughed  incessantly,  and  resented  his 
wife's  attempts  to  wrap  him  up  against  the  weather. 


THE  SEETHING  POT  261 

He  had  got  no  hint  of  any  intention  on  the  part  of 
the  Government  to  stop  his  meeting. 

O'Dwyer  was  excited  and  nervous.  He  fidgeted 
about,  buttoning  and  unbuttoning  his  great  frieze 
coat,  a  garment  whose  original  gray  had  long  ago 
been  changed  by  frequent  soakings  into  a  sickly 
green.  The  two  emaciated  horses  dripped  forlornly 
with  down-hanging  heads.  Six  long  miles  of  shelter- 
less road  separated  them  from  Ross.  O'Neill  huddled 
in  a  corner,  silent  except  for  his  coughing.  O'Dwyer, 
after  some  efforts  at  conversation  with  Sir  Gerald, 
relapsed  into  half -audible  recitations  of  specially 
effective  portions  of  his  speech.  The  waggonette 
splashed  and  bumped  along  among  the  pools  and 
loose  stones.  About  a  mile  from  Ross  the  driver 
suddenly  pulled  up  his  horses  and  turned  round 
upon  his  box. 

'Look  there,'  he  said,  pointing  with  his  whip  to  a 
hill  about  a  hundred  yards  ahead  of  them.  O'Neill 
stood  up  and  gazed  through  the  rain. 

'The  police!'  he  said.  He  seemed  suddenly  to 
have  recovered  his  strength  and  buoyancy.  '  Go  on,' 
he  said  to  the  driver.  '  Lay  your  whip  on  the  horses, 
and  trot  up  in  proper  style.' 

O'Dwyer  had  already  stripped  off  his  frieze  coat. 
He  looked  like  a  man  preparing  for  a  physical 
encounter.  Sir  Gerald  expected  to  see  him  roll  up 
his  sleeves. 

'  By  the  Lord !'  he  ejaculated,  '  we'll  let  them  have 
it.  This  is  the  grossest  tyranny.' 


THE  SEETHING  POT 

I  What  is  it  ?'  asked  Sir  Gerald. 

'The  police,'  said  O'Neill.  'They  mean  to  stop 
us.' 

'  What  right  have  they  to  interfere  with  us  ?' 

'  Right !'  said  O'Dwyer ;  and  Sir  Gerald  was  sur- 
prised at  the  extreme  bitterness  with  which  he  spoke. 
'  Are  you  an  Irishman,  and  ask  by  what  right  the 
police  act?  You'll  learn  a  lesson  to-day  that  will 
remain  with  you  for  the  rest  of  your  life.  Right ! 
There's  no  such  thing  as  right  in  the  government 
of  Ireland.  There's  force,  and  there's  trickery,  and 
there's  bribery,  but  no  one  ever  heard  of  such  a  thing 
as  right.' 

The  driver  pulled  up  with  a  jerk  opposite  a  line  of 
police  drawn  across  the  road.  The  men  stood  motion- 
less, with  their  carbines  in  their  hands.  The  rain 
dripped  from  their  helmets  and  gray  capes.  Their 
faces  shone  through  the  wet  wholly  unemotional. 
They  bore  no  expression  of  hatred,  anger,  or  contempt. 
One  might  imagine  the  best  of  the  Roman  infantry 
standing  with  the  same  look  of  confident  indifference 
between  contending  factions  of  a  conquered  barbarian 
people.  O'Neill  stepped  from  the  waggonette. 

'  Who  is  in  command  of  this  force  ?'  he  asked. 

A  gray-haired  officer  stepped  forward.  He  held 
his  sword  in  his  left  hand  to  prevent  it  dragging  in 
the  mud.  When  he  stood  still  his  spurs  struck  each 
other  with  a  jangle. 

I 1  am  sorry  to  say,  Mr.  O'Neill,  that  I  cannot  allow 
you  to  proceed.' 


THE  SEETHING  POT  263 

'  May  I  ask,'  said  O'Neill,  '  by  what  authority  you 
propose  to  prevent  two  members  of  Parliament  from 
addressing  the  electors  of  the  county  ?' 

'  I  am  sorry  to  say,  Mr.  O'Neill,'  repeated  the 
officer,  '  that  I  cannot  allow  you  to  proceed.' 

'  Am  I  to  understand  that  if  I  attempt  to  drive  on 
you  will  use  force  to  stop  me  ?' 

Again  came  the  formula,  an  irritating  reitera- 
tion : 

'  I  am  sorry  to  say,  Mr  O'Neill,  that  I  cannot  allow 
you  to  proceed.' 

O'Dwyer  sprang  forward. 

'  I  denounce  this  interference  as  an  utterly  illegal 
act  of  high-handed  tyranny.  I  shall  appeal  to  what- 
ever shadow  of  law  there  may  be  left  in  Ireland.  I 
shall  appeal  to  the  House  of  Commons.  I  shall  not 
yield  except  to  actual  violence.' 

The  police  stood  absolutely  impassive.  The  officer 
smiled  slightly,  and  checked  himself  into  gravity 
again. 

'Do  your  orders  bid  you  stop  anyone  else  except 
me  ?'  asked  O'Neill — '  Mr.  O'Dwyer,  for  instance  ?' 

'  I  am  sorry  to  say,  Mr.  O'Neill,  that  I  cannot  allow 
either  you  or  Mr.  O'Dwyer  to  proceed.' 

'  Can  Sir  Gerald  Geoghegan  pass  ?'  demanded 
O'Neill. 

The  officer  paused  before  replying.  He  stepped 
behind  his  men  and  beckoned.  A  heavily-cloaked 
resident  magistrate  emerged  from  the  shelter  of  a 
roadside  cattle-shed  and  opened  his  umbrella.  A 


264  THE  SEETHING  POT 

short  consultation  followed,  and  an  examination  of 
acme  papers.  The  officer  returned  to  O'Neill. 

'I  shall  allow  Sir  Gerald  Geoghegan  to  pass,'  he 
*aid,  'if  he  gives  me  his  word  to  make  no  political 
speech  hi  Ross.' 

O'Dwyer  laughed  harshly. 

'  Will  your  honour  give  me  lave  to  go  to  the  fair  ?' 
he  said.  'Sure,  it's  a  poor  orphan  boy  I  am,  that 
wants  to  be  buying  a  couple  of  bonhams  or  a  calf, 
aaaybe.  Anybody  will  tell  your  honour  that  I'm  as 
dacent  and  quiet  a  boy  as  any  in  the  country,  that 
wouldn't  say  a  word  agin  the  Government  for  all  you 
eould  give  me.' 

'  Of  course,'  said  Sir  Gerald,  '  I  shall  give  no  such 
promise.' 

'  I  demand,'  said  O'Neill,  '  to  see  the  warrant  or 
written  authority  by  which  you  prevent  us  from  going 
an  with  our  perfectly  lawful  business.' 

The  officer  returned  to  the  shelter  of  his  formula. 

'  I  am  sorry  to  say,  Mr.  O'Neill,  that  I  cannot  allow 
you  to  proceed.' 

'I  didn't  ask  you  to  allow  me  to  proceed,'  said 
©'Neill.  '  I  asked  you  to  show  me  your  authority 
for  stopping  me.' 

The  officer  stood  rigid.  He  seemed  like  some 
automaton  wound  up  to  utter  certain  words  beyond 
which  his  machinery  would  not  carry  him. 

'  I  am  sorry  to  say,  Mr.  O'Neill,  that  I ' 

Sir  Gerald's  temper  suddenly  gave  way.  He  felt 
fctiat  the  phrase  had  become  utterly  intolerable.  His 


THE  SEETHING  POT  265 

nerves  cried  out  against  being  smitten  again  with  the 
identical  words  uttered  in  the  identical  tone. 

'  Damn  it ! '  he  said.  '  Don't  say  that  infernal  thing 
again ! ' 

O'Neill  looked  at  him  with  a  curious  smile. 

'  Good,'  he  said ;  '  you  have  found  your  temper.' 

Sir  Gerald  was  puzzled.  The  moment  he  had 
uttered  the  words  he  was  sorry  for  them.  It  did 
not  seem  to  him  at  all  a  good  thing  to  have  cursed 
a  policeman  for  doing  his  duty.  He  had  lost  his 
temper.  Why  did  O'Neill  use  that  odd  phrase  saying 
that  he  had  found  it  ? 

A  sergeant  stepped  from  the  ranks  and  spoke  to 
the  officer,  who  turned  his  head  quickly  towards  the 
field  on  the  left  of  the  road.  Everyone's  eyes  fol- 
lowed his.  O'Dwyer  had  jumped  the  ditch  which 
divided  the  field  from  the  road,  and  was  running 
across  the  grass  towards  Ross.  The  officer  gave  a 
brief  order.  Two  men  dropped  their  carbines,  threw 
off  their  capes,  and  started  in  pursuit.  The  chase 
did  not  last  long.  O'Dwyer  had  only  a  short  start, 
and  ran  badly.  When  the  police  overtook  him,  there 
was  a  struggle,  but  in  a  few  minutes  they  were 
dragging  him  back.  His  clothes  were  torn  and  muddy 
when  they  laid  him  on  the  ground  at  O'Neill's  feet. 
As  they  resumed  their  places  in  the  ranks  they 
glanced  at  the  officer  for  approval.  Their  expres- 
sion reminded  Sir  Gerald  of  the  look  on  a  retriever's 
face  when  he  has  successfully  brought  back  the  bird 
he  was  sent  for. 


THE  SEETHING  POT 

Two  men  appeared  dimly  through  the  rain  driving 
cattle  from  the  fair  at  Ross.  They  stopped  and 
spoke  together  when  they  saw  the  police  drawn  up 
across  the  road.  The  bullocks  wandered  slowly  on, 
and  only  stopped  to  sniff  suspiciously  when  they 
arrived  within  a  few  feet  of  the  armed  men.  After  a 
while  their  drovers  followed  them.  O'Neill  climbed 
on  to  the  box  of  the  waggonette  and  shouted  to  them 
over  the  heads  of  the  police. 

'  Are  you  coming  from  the  fair  at  Ross  ?' 

The  men  recognised  him  at  once. 

'  We  are,  your  honour,  sir.  We're  driving  Mr. 
Maillia's  bullocks  back  to  rail  them  for  the  buyer  in 
Clogher.' 

'Go  back  to  Ross,  one  of  you,'  shouted  O'Neill, 
'  and  tell  the  boys  that  there'll  be  no  meeting  there 
to-day,  because  the  police  have  stopped  me  on  the 
road.  Tell  them  to  come  along,  a  few  hundred  of 
them,  and  I'll  say  what  I  want  to  say  to  them  here  on 
the  road.' 

The  police-officer  stepped  forward. 

'Mr.  O'Neill,'  he  said,  looking  up,  'I  shall  allow  no 
political  speech-making  here.' 

1  Tell  them,'  shouted  O'Neill  to  the  drovers, '  that,  if 
there  should  happen  to  be  a  couple  of  cross  cows  or  a 
kicking  horse  in  the  fair,  to  bring  them  along.  The 
police  will  like  to  move  about  a  bit  after  standing 
still  so  long  in  the  rain.' 

The  officer  turned  from  O'Neill  and  went  through 
his  men  to  the  drovers.  At  first  he  seemed  to  be 


THE  SEETHING  POT  267 

reasoning  with  them,  finally  to  be  threatening  one  of 
them.  O'Neill  watched  him  keenly,  and  at  last 
shouted  again : 

'  Do  as  I  bid  you,  boys ;  never  mind  the  police.  It 
will  be  a  bad  day  for  you  when  the  League  hears  of 
your  disobeying  me.' 

One  of  the  two  men  answered  him  : 

'  Don't  you  be  threatening  me,  Mr.  O'Neill.  I'm  a 
Protestant  and  an  independent  man.  I  don't  care  a 
damn  for  you  or  your  League  !  But  I  don't  care  a 
damn  for  the  police,  either !  I'm  for  fair-play,  if  it 
was  the  devil  asked  for  it,  and  I'll  see  that  the  boys 
get  your  message.  It  could  be,  though,  that  they 
won't  come  next  or  nigh  you  when  they  do.  Father 
Fahy  and  his  two  curates  and  the  parish  priest  of 
Ross  and  more  of  the  same  gentry  has  been  to  and 
fro  among  them  since  the  morning.  You'll  know 
yourself  what  they're  there  for  better  nor  me.' 

He  turned  and  trudged  back  towards  Ross  through 
the  rain.  O'Neill  climbed  slowly  down  from  the  box, 
while  the  police  opened  their  ranks  to  let  Mr.  Maillia's 
bullocks  through.  He  shivered  and  coughed.  Sir 
Gerald  tried  to  persuade  him  to  seek  such  shelter  as 
the  waggonette  might  afford,  representing  that  they 
might  wrap  themselves  in  rugs  and  keep  tolerably 
dry  during  the  wait  that  lay  before  them.  O'Neill 
refused  to  do  anything  but  pace  up  and  down  in  front 
of  the  police. 

'  Let  me  alone,'  he  said.  '  I  can't  be  any  wetter 
than  I  am,  and  I  couldn't  endure  to  sit  still.' 


268  THE  SEETHING  POT 

The  police-officer  approached  Sir  Gerald. 

'  I  wish,'  he  said,  'you  would  persuade  Mr.  O'Neill 
to  go  home.  This  exposure  is  enough  to  kill 
him.' 

1  Who  the  devil  asked  you  to  interfere  ? '  said  Sir 
Gerald.  '  I  suppose  your  orders  from  Dublin  Castle 
don't  extend  to  putting  him  to  bed  with  a  hot  drink, 
do  they?' 

'  I  beg  your  pardon,'  said  the  officer.  '  I  had  no 
right  to  offer  advice.  But  I  only  did  so  in  Mr. 
O'Neill's  interest.' 

He  spoke  like  a  gentleman.  Sir  Gerald  was  once 
more  keenly  conscious  of  the  bad  taste  of  losing  his 
temper  and  swearing. 

'I  ought  to  beg  your  pardon,'  he  said,  'for  speaking 
in  a  quite  unjustifiable  manner.  I  am  sure  you  meant 
kindly.' 

'  I  hope,'  said  the  officer, '  that  you  have  too  much 
sense  of  justice  to  blame  me  personally  for  what  has 
occurred  to-day.  I  can  only  obey  my  orders.' 

'  I  understand,'  said  Sir  Gerald. 

'  I  wish,'  said  the  officer,  '  you  would  take  my 
advice  and  go  home.  There  is  nothing  to  be  gained 
by  staying  here.  You  heard  what  that  fellow  said 
about  the  priests.  They  won't  let  you  hold  your 
meeting.  I've  known  Ireland,  south  and  west,  for 
forty  years,  and  I  tell  you  it's  no  use  your  fighting 
the  priests.  Everyone  that  ever  tried  got  beaten  and 
went  under.  The  game  is  not  good  enough.  Besides 
— you  won't  mind  my  saying  this  ;  I'm  old  enough  to 


THE  SEETHING  POT  269 

be  your  father — it's  not  a  very  dignified  position  for 
one  of  the  first  gentlemen  in  the  county  to  be 
disputing  with  a  lot  of  bobbies  on  the  public  road. 
Come  now,  is  it  ?' 

He  smiled  as  he  asked  the  question. 

Every  word  that  the  officer  said  struck  Sir  Gerald 
as  true.  He  felt  the  painful  indignity  of  his  position. 
He  was  convinced  that  it  was  hopeless  to  fight  the 
priests.  The  battle  would  be  a  vile  one  in  any  case. 
There  opened  up  before  his  mind  a  prospect  of 
appeals  to  the  worst  passions  of  the  mob,  of  detest- 
able tactics,  of  utterly  sordid  details.  Besides,  he 
was  not  sure  if  he  wanted  to  beat  the  priests.  He 
knew  by  heart  all  that  could  be  said  about  their 
tyranny  and  greed,  their  craft  and  narrow  dogmatism. 
But  he  remembered  also  Father  Fahy's  care  for  the 
poor  people  out  on  the  mountains  and  bogs.  It  did 
not  seem  to  him  either  possible  or  right  to  set  these 
people  free  from  their  priests.  Surely,  life  would  be 
better  spent  in  taking  care  of  them  and  trying  to  lift 
them  out  of  the  quagmire  of  their  poverty. 

He  was  depressed  and  sickened  by  the  experiences 
of  the  last  few  days.  He  no  longer  saw  any  heroism 
in  the  struggle  before  him,  and  wished  heartily  that 
he  could  have  done  with  the  whole  thing.  There 
rose  up  in  his  mind  a  vision  of  what  his  life  might 
be.  He  saw  a  long  vista  of  peaceful  days,  with 
Hester  by  his  side,  with  children,  perhaps,  growing 
up  around  his  knees.  He  thought  of  the  ordered 
routine,  the  deference,  the  honour  and  affection 


270  THE  SEETHING  POT 

which  might  surround  him;  of  pleasant  intercourse 
with  men  whose  ways  and  thoughts  would  not  jar 
on  him,  and  with  ladies  who  were  gracious  and 
benign. 

His  heart  rebelled  at  the  magnitude  of  the  sacrifice 
he  was  called  upon  to  make.  After  all,  why  should 
he  do  it  ?  Who  was  he,  that  he  should  try  to  set  the 
crooked  straight?  Was  he  sure  that  he  was  even 
attempting  that  ?  Sure  that  he  was  not  engaged  in 
making  the  crooked  crookeder?  His  mind  worked 
hopelessly  back  to  its  starting-point 

He  stood  beside  the  waggonette  and  looked  at 
O'Dwyer,  crouched,  dripping,  and  muddy  at  his  feet. 
Beyond  was  the  motionless  line  of  police.  Up  and 
down  in  front  of  them  O'Neill  still  paced,  his  hands 
clenched,  his  eyes  turning  now  and  again,  almost 
hopelessly  expectant,  towards  the  long  stretch  of  road 
that  led  to  Ross.  Sir  Gerald  knew  that  no  such 
thoughts  as  filled  his  own  mind  were  possible  for 
either  of  the  other  two.  O'Dwyer  would  fight  passion- 
ately and  madly  against  the  priests,  against  England, 
against  anyone  who  threatened  his  dream  of  an  inde- 
pendent Ireland.  And  O'Neill — it  was  impossible 
even  to  imagine  his  ever  yielding.  Sir  Gerald  sighed. 
He  knew  that  he  could  not  desert  them  now,  that  he 
must  be  dragged  on,  an  unwilling  recruit,  upon  a 
desperate  enterprise,  uncertain  even  of  the  justice  of 
the  cause  for  which  he  fought. 

A  solitary  figure  appeared  upon  the  road  which  led 
from  Ross.  O'Neill  stopped  his  pacing  to  and  fro  and 


THE  SEETHING  POT  271 

stood  watching.  O'Dwyer  got  up  and  stood  beside 
him.  In  a  few  minutes  it  became  possible  to  recognise 
Michael  McCarty.  The  police-officer  went  to  meet 
him,  and  the  magistrate  once  more  left  the  shelter 
of  his  shed.  There  was  a  short  conversation  between 
the  three,  and  then  McCarty  passed  through  the 
police  and  approached  O'Neill.  He  stood,  a  very 
pitiful  figure,  with  his  hat  in  his  hands  and  his  head 
bowed.  The  rain  ran  down  his  face  and  dripped  from 
his  drenched  clothes.  At  first  he  seemed  unable  to 
speak. 

'  Well,'  aaid  O'Neill  at  last,  '  I  suppose  they  won't 
come  to  meet  me  from  Boss.' 

'  They  will  not,'  said  McCarty  almost  inaudibly. 

It  was  all  he  said,  and,  indeed,  there  was  no  need 
for  any  more.  Sir  Gerald  understood  and  pitied  him. 
O'Neill  also  understood.  He  looked  at  McCarty,  and  Sir 
Gerald  had  never  seen  or  imagined  an  expression  of 
such  intense  contempt  as  his  face  wore. 

'  You  are  cowards,'  he  said  very  slowly — '  a  nation 
of  cowards.  I  am  ashamed  to  call  myself  an  Irishman. 
Go  away  from  me.' 

McCarty  shrank  as  if  the  lash  of  a  whip  had  cut 
him.  He  turned  a  pitiful  face  to  O'Dwyer,  and  then 
to  Sir  Gerald,  as  if  he  appealed  for  shelter  from  the 
storm  that  withered  him.  Then  he  turned  and 
walked  slowly  back  towards  Ross- 

'  Come  home,'  said  O'Neill  hoarsely.  'There  is  no 
good  to  be  got  by  stopping  here.' 

They  drove  back  to  Clogher  in  silence.    It  was  only 


272  THE  SEETHING  POT 

when  Sir  Gerald  was  getting  out  of  the  waggonette  at 
his  own  gate  that  O'Neill  spoke  : 

'  Don't  think  that  we  are  beatea  We  shall  make 
a  good  fight  yet  against  the  allied  forces  of  the  priests 
and  the  English.  The  Government  and  the  Church 
are  in  league  against  us.  I  have  no  doubt  that 
to-day's  business  was  arranged  between  them.  Come 
and  see  me  to-morrow.' 


CHAPTER  XXI 

SIR  GERALD  was  tired  and  irritable  when  Hester  met 
him  in  the  hall. 

'  Gerald,'  she  said,  '  you're  very  late.  Do  be  quick 
about  dressing.  Mr.  Browne  is  here,  and  I  don't  want 
to  go  in  to  see  him  till  you  are  ready.' 

'Good  Lord  !'  said  Sir  Gerald,  '  I  completely  forgot 
that  I  had  asked  him  to  dinner  and  to  sleep  here 
to-night.  I  wish  to  God  it  was  any  other  day  he  had 
come  !'  I'm  so  wretchedly  tired  and  disgusted.' 

'  Poor  Gerald !  how  horrid  of  me  not  to  have  asked 
you  how  you  got  on !  What  happened  ?  I  hope 
Mr.  O'Dwyer  didn't  say  anything  you  didn't  like. 
How  did  your  speech  go  off?' 

'There  was  neither  meeting  nor  speeches.  The 
police  stopped  us.' 

'  The  police  !     Oh !' 

Hester's  voice  betrayed  the  fact  that  she  was  really 
shocked.  There  is  something  about  any  contact  with 
the  police  which  brings  with  it  a  feeling  of  disgrace. 
The  stigma  of  having  been  once  arrested  for  drunken- 
ness and  disorderly  conduct  would  cling  to  a  respect- 

273  18 


274  THE  SEETHING  POT 

able  citizen  even  though  his  innocence  of  the  charge 
were  afterwards  made  clear  as  the  noon-day. 

Sir  Gerald  was  not  inclined  to  spare  her  feelings. 

'Yes,  I  have  been  in  conflict  with  the  police.  I 
brawled  with  a  constable  on  the  public  road.  I  cursed 
him  in  the  most  abominable  manner.  He  ought,  I 
suppose,  to  have  arrested  me  and  locked  me  up.  That 
was  pleasant,  wasn't  it  ?  The  policeman  behaved 
like  a  gentleman.  I  have  probably  earned  a  reputa- 
tion as  a  rowdy.  I  am  inclined  to  think,  Hester/ 
he  added  bitterly,  '  that  your  mother  was  right 
when  she  tried  to  prevent  you  marrying  an  Irish 
Nationalist.' 

'  Gerald  dear,'  she  said,  '  I'm  so  sorry.  It  was  all 
my  fault  for  persuading  you  to  go  to  the  horrid  meet- 
ing. But  you  must  come  up  and  dress  quickly. 
Mr.  Browne  is  waiting  all  this  time.' 

Dry  clothes  and  a  clean  shirt  restored  Sir  Gerald's 
self-respect  to  some  extent,  and  he  faced  Dennis 
Browne  in  the  drawing-room  with  a  fair  imitation  of 
a  smile  of  welcome. 

'  I'm  afraid,'  said  the  poet,  '  that  I  am  rather 
intruding  on  you  this  evening.  I  can  quite  under- 
stand that  you  are  very  busy.' 

'You  are  very  welcome,'  said  Sir  Gerald.  'I'm 
sorry  for  being  late  and  leaving  you  so  long  alone.  I 
have  only  just  got  home.' 

'Electioneering,  of  course,'  said  Browne.  'It  must 
be  a  fascinating  occupation.  You  must  relate  your 
experiences.' 


THE  SEETHING  POT  275 

Sir  Gerald  shrank  from  giving  an  account  of  the 
afternoon's  proceedings  to  Dennis  Browne. 

'  I  wonder,'  he  said,  '  what  has  happened  to  dinner. 
I'm  nearly  starved.  I  think  I  shall  ring  the  bell  and 
try  to  hurry  things  up  a  little.' 

After  dinner  Dennis  Browne  made  himself  comfort- 
able in  a  large  arm-chair  before  the  library  fire,  with 
a  pile  of  cigarettes  beside  him. 

'  Now,'  he  said,  '  let's  hear  all  about  how  you  have 
been  getting  on.  I'm  sure  Lady  Geoghegan  is  even 
more  interested  than  I  am.' 

'  I  don't  think,'  said  Sir  Gerald, '  that  there  is  really 
anything  to  tell  that  would  interest  you.' 

'  On  the  contrary,'  said  Browne,  '  there's  hardly 
anything  to  tell  that  wouldn't.  I  assure  you  there  is 
nothing  more  exciting  to  a  good  Catholic  like  me  than 
to  watch  someone  else  having  a  go  at  the  priests. 
I  need  scarcely  tell  you  that  my  sympathies  are 
entirely  on  your  side.' 

'  In  that  case  I'm  afraid  the  result  will  disappoint 
3Tou.  We  are  going  to  be  beaten.' 

'  Really !  Do  you  know,  I'm  not  surprised.  I  was 
sure  you  would  be ;  but  the  struggle  will  be  just  as 
interesting  to  me.' 

Sir  Gerald  remained  silent.  He  felt  that  it  would 
be  really  impossible  for  him  to  tell  his  story  to  this 
amused  and  cynical  listener.  Dennis  Browne  seemed 
in  no  way  put  out. 

'  As  a  Catholic  I  respect  and  honour  the  priests,' 
he  said;  '  they  fulfil  a  really  useful  function  in  society. 

18—2 


376  THE  SEETHING  POT 

To  me  personally  they  are  quite  indispensable.  I 
can't  imagine  how  you  Protestants  get  on  without  a 
priesthood.' 

He  paused,  and  lit  a  fresh  cigarette.  As  neither 
Sir  Gerald  nor  Hester  spoke,  he  went  on  medi- 
fcatively : 

'  The  business  of  a  priest  is  to  deal  with  penitents. 
His  success  depends  partly  on  his  skill  in  appreciating 
the  nature  of  the  individual,  and  partly  on  his  capacity 
for  stage-management.  I  know  of  no  mors  agreeable 
emotion  than  repentance.  Confession  to  a  priest, 
who  is  capable  of  understanding  and  suggesting,  is  a 
species  of  spiritual  massage.  The  ceremonies  of  Ash 
Wednesday  and  Good  Friday  in  a  Catholic  country 
affect  me  with  an  even  keener  delight  than  that  of  the 
preliminary  sin.  Of  course  there  must  be  real  sin 
beforehand  ;  otherwise  one  would  not  wish  for  abso- 
lution, and  the  whole  thing  would  become  a  bore.  I 
have  often  felt  the  want  of  some  new  sin,  something 
t-eally  monstrous.  I  can  imagine  that  the  ensuing 
repentance  would  be  very  exquisite.' 

He  paused  again,  gazing  mournfully  into  the  fire. 
Hester  glanced  a  mute  appeal  to  her  husband,  but 
before  Sir  Gerald  had  hit  upon  a  way  of  changing  the 
subject,  Browne  began  again: 

'  The  Irish  priests,  from  the  point  of  view  of  an 
educated  Catholic,  are  a  failure.  In  the  first  place, 
they  have  not  the  remotest  idea  of  how  to  manage 
ceremonies.  I  assure  you  that  Ash  Wednesday  in 
Dublin  would  hardly  stir  the  pulse  of  the  most 


THE  SEETHING  POT  27T 

emotional  girl.  Then,  in  this  country  the  priests 
make  the  absurd  mistake  of  preventing  the  people 
from  sinning.  Now,  I  put  it  to  you,  Lady  Geoghegan, 
as  an  impartial  outsider,  how  can  a  man  repent 
properly  if  he  has  not  been  allowed  to  sin  ?' 

'I'm  not  what  you  call  a  Catholic,'  said  Hester, 
'so  I  am  afraid  that  I  can't  understand  what  you 
mean  by  sinning  and  repenting.' 

'  My  dear  lady,'  said  Dennis  Browne,  '  you  are  very 
severe  on  us  poor  Catholics.  Are  we  the  only  people 
who  occasionally  sin  ?  Surely  you  yourself — but  per- 
haps not.  Believe  me,  you  miss  a  great  deal,  you 
really  do !  What  is  there  worth  getting  in  life  except 
emotion  ?  If  you  neither  sin  nor  repent,  you  lose 
two  of  the  major  emotions.' 

'  I  think,'  said  Hester,  addressing  her  husband  and 
ignoring  Browne,  'that  I  shall  go  to  the  drawing- 
room.  Your  smoke  is  becoming  rather  too  muck 
for  me.' 

'Now,'  said  Browne,  after  she  had  left,  'I  have 
been  so  unfortunate  as  to  offend  Lady  Geoghegan  i 
second  time.  I  am  exceedingly  sorry.' 

He  did  not  look  as  if  he  were  sorry.  On  the  con- 
trary, he  seemed  to  be  in  full  enjoyment  of  one  of 
life's  minor  emotions. 

'  Really,  you  know,'  he  went  on,  '  there  is  a  great 
deal  of  truth  in  what  I  say.  The  Irish  priests  hav« 
quite  stepped  out  of  their  proper  province  in  i»~ 
sisting  upon  an  impossible  standard  of  national 
morality.1 


278  THE  SEETHING  POT 

'I  don't  at  all  agree  with  you.  I  regard  the 
morality  of  the  Irish  people  as  their  great  and 
peculiar  glory.' 

'Indeed!'  said  Browne.  'But  then — excuse  my 
asking  a  blunt  question — why  are  you  and  O'Neill 
fighting  the  priests  ?' 

'  Because '  said  Sir  Gerald,  and  then  stopped. 

Browne  looked  at  him,  mildly  interrogatory.  A 
phrase  of  O'Dwyer's  occurred  to  his  mind :  '  We  are 
fighting  for  liberty  of  thought  and  action.' 

'  Yes,'  said  Browne.  '  That  is  what  I  think  Ireland 
wants — liberty  from  an  absurd  moral  tyranny,  liberty 
to  take  life's  joys  when  opportunity  offers  them, 
just  like  the  inhabitants  of  any  other  Catholic 
country.' 

'  The  sort  of  liberty  you  mean,'  said  Sir  Gerald,  '  is 
utterly  detestable.' 

'  But,  my  dear  sir,  all  liberty  involves  the  removal 
of  moral  restraint.  It  must  do  that,  and  it  seems  tb 
me  altogether  desirable  that  it  should.  That  is  why 
my  sympathies  are  with  you  and  O'Neill  in  the  fight 
you  are  making.' 

'I  don't  think,'  said  Sir  Gerald,  'that  you  quite 
understand  my  position.' 

'  I  think  I  do,  entirely.  Pardon  my  saying  so,  but 
I  fear  you  hardly  understand  it  yourself.  You  want 
to  break  the  political  power  of  the  priests,  but  to  leave 
their  moral  power  intact.  To  me  that  does  not  seem 
to  be  a  desirable  thing,  even  if  it  were  possible.  And 
is  it  possible?  After  all,  who  cares  about  political 


THE  SEETHING  POT  279 

power  ?  A  mere  handful  of  men.  For  most  of  us, 
life  is  the  same  thing  whoever  makes  the  laws  or 
spends  the  taxes.  What  really  matters  is  morality. 
People  who  are  condemned  to  a  drab-coloured  puri- 
tanism  can't  be  happy.  Can  they  ?' 

Sir  Gerald  gazed  at  him  in  sheer  amazement. 

'  You  and  O'Neill,'  Browne  went  on,  *  appear  to  me 
to  be  acting  very  foolishly  when  you  rush  at  the 
political  power  of  the  priests  with  your  heads  down, 
as  if  you  could  butt  it  and  batter  it  to  the  ground. 
Why  don't  you  try  to  gradually  undermine  their  moral 
power  ?' 

Sir  Gerald  could  hit  on  nothing  more  effective  to 
say  than  a  feeble  '  Why  don't  you  ?' 

'I  do,"  said  Browne.  ' You  will  probably  call  me 
diabolical.  I  don't  attempt  to  defend  myself.  I  do  try 
to  show  people  the  delightfulness  of  moral  freedom. 
I  have  no  doubt  that  I  shall  ultimately  succeed  in 
undermining  the  power  of  the  priests.  I  am  just  as 
sure  of  it  as  I  am  that  you  will  fail.  Once  I  can  get 
the  people  to  see  the  pleasures  of  moral  freedom,  they 
will  begin  to  long  for  it,  and  then  the  power  of  the 
priests  will  be  gone.  Just  at  present  I  am  writing  a 
new  play  to  illustrate  the  joy  of  living.  Afterwards 
shall  turn  it  into  a  novel.  It  is  really  this  which  keeps 
me  here  in  the  West.  I  am  in  search  of  local  colour 
and  incident.' 

Dennis  Browne's  talk — and  there  was  much  more  of 
it — greatly  affected  Sir  Gerald.  His  day's  work  with 
O'Neill  had  outraged  his  sense  of  dignity  and  offended 


280  THE  SEETHING  POT 

his  feelings  as  a  gentleman.  Browne's  cynical  im- 
morality moved  him  more  deeply  still.  He  saw 
himself  now  as  an  ally  in  a  crusade  against  righteous- 
ness. He  had  not  understood  before,  as  he  thought 
he  did  now,  that  the  wonderful  power  of  the  Church 
in  Ireland  was  really  necessary  if  the  distinctive 
purity  of  the  Irish  was  to  be  preserved.  It  seemed 
to  him  inconceivably  horrible  that  he  should  be  taking 
part,  even  the  smallest  part,  in  shattering  the  dam 
which  kept  out  the  tide  of  immorality.  The  debate 
of  the  afternoon  renewed  itself  in  his  mind,  but  now 
the  side  which  had  seemed  the  selfish  one  was  rein- 
forced with  considerations  of  religion  and  purity.  The 
issue  no  longer  remained  doubtful.  At  whatever  cost 
to  his  sense  of  loyalty  and  friendship,  he  must 
definitely  break  with  O'Neill  and  withdraw  from  the 
political  contest. 

He  shrank  from  telling  Hester  his  decision,  for  he 
feared  that  her  enthusiasm  for  O'Neill  would  lead  her 
to  oppose  it.  He  found  her  waiting  for  him  beside 
her  bedroom  fire. 

'  Now  that  I've  got  you  alone  at  last,'  she  said,  'I 
want  you  to  tell  me  all  about  what  happened  this 
afternoon.  You  don't  really  mean  that  you  had  a 
row  with  the  police  ?' 

'I  had  indeed,'  he  said,  'just  as  I  told  you.  I 
behaved  very  badly.' 

'  Gerald  dear,  did  they — how  can  I  say  it  ? — did 
they  touch  you  ?' 

'  If  you  mean,  did  they  hustle  me  about  by  the 


THE  SEETHING  POT  281 

collar  of  the  coat,  they  did  not.  They  dragged 
O'Dwyer  about  a  bit,  and  I  dare  say  I  deserved  the 
same  treatment ;  but  the  officer  was  a  gentleman,  and 
let  me  off.' 

'  Who  was  he  ?' 

'  I  don't  know  his  name.  He  was  a  tall,  well-set-up 
man,  with  a  gray  moustache  and  rather  a  nice  face. 
I  dare  say  if  one  didn't  happen  to  be  a  corner  boy  he 
would  be  a  pleasant  man  to  know.' 

'  I  expect  that  was  Mr.  Lowry,  the  county  in- 
spector. He  dined  with  us  one  night  at  home,  I 
remember.  Father  likes  him  greatly.  I  wish  he 
hadn't  happened  to  be  there.  I  can't  bear  to  think  of 
his  having  seen  you.' 

'  I  wish  I  hadn't  been  there,'  said  Sir  Gerald 
gloomily. 

'  Indeed  I  wish  you  hadn't.  It's  too  humiliating. 
Gerald,  promise  that  you  will  never  let  it  happen 
again.' 

'My  dear  girl,  it  was  you  who  persuaded  me 
to  go/ 

'  I  know — I  know.     I  wish  I  hadn't.' 

'  Hester,  you  have  made  it  easier  for  me  to  tell  you 
that  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  give  up  standing  for 
this  seat  in  Parliament,  and  to  leave  O'Neill's  party 
altogether.' 

'  Oh,  Gerald !' 

Her  tone  was  half  of  protest,  half,  he  fancied,  of 
relief. 

'  It's  not  only  that  I  dislike  rows  with  the  police,' 


282  THE  SEETHING  POT 

he  went  on,  '  though  I  don't  think  they  are  suitable 
for  a  man  in  my  position.' 

'  They  are  not,'  said  Hester  with  conviction. 

'  It's  not  only  that.  I've  come  to  think  that  the 
Irish  peasants  are  best  left  to  the  guidance  of  their 
priests.  I  see  nothing  but  trouble  and  evil  if  they 
ever  break  free  from  it.  I  can't  be  one  of  those  who 
try  to  emancipate  them.' 

'  Yes,'  said  Hester  doubtfully — '  yes.' 

'  Dennis  Browne  helped  me  to  see  what  emancipa- 
tion really  means.  He  thinks ' 

'  I  can  guess  what  he  thinks,  and  I  don't  want  to 
hear.' 

'  Well,  I  don't  want  to  put  my  hand  to  that  sort  of 
work.' 

'  No,  of  course  not.  But,  oh,  Gerald  isn't  it  a 
dreadful  thing  to  have  to  desert  poor  Mr.  O'Neill 
now  ?  It  may  be  right — I'm  sure  it  is — but  how  will 
you  bear  to  do  it  ?' 

Sir  Gerald's  forehead  wrinkled  hopelessly.  His 
face  was  that  of  a  man  who  is  suffering  acute 
physical  pain. 

'  I  have  thought  of  that,  Hester.  You  will  believe 
me  when  I  say  that  I  hate  myself ,  for  doing 
it.' 

'  And  Ireland  ?'  she  asked.  '  Is  there  anyone  else 
except  Mr.  O'Neill  who  really  cares  for  Ireland  ?' 

Sir  Gerald  pushed  his  fingers  through  his  hair 
with  a  gesture  of  positive  despair. 

'  Hester   dear,   I  can  see  no  good  to  come   for 


THE  SEETHING  POT  283 

Ireland  any  way.  I  cannot  think  of  Ireland  or  work 
for  Ireland.  Hester,  you  may  call  me  a  coward,  and 
I  dare  say  I  deserve  it.  I  am  giving  the  whole  thing 
up.  Ireland  must  go  her  own  way,  and  work  out  her 
own  salvation  or  damnation.  I  can't  help  her.  I 
shall  be  one  who  looks  on.' 

'Gerald,'  she  said,  'have  you  forgotten  your 
father  ?' 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  as  if  she  had 
struck  him.  There  was  astonishment  at  first,  and 
then  pain  with  it,  in  his  face.  Then  there  was  pain 
only,  and  he  turned  to  leave  her.  In  a  moment 
she  had  left  her  chair  and  run  to  him.  Her  arms 
were  round  him  and  held  him  fast. 

'  I  ought  never  to  have  said  it,'  she  cried.  '  It  was 
cruel,  and  cowardly,  and  base.  I  have  disgraced 
myself,  and  if  you  hate  me  for  it  you  will  do  right.' 
She  burst  into  sobs  as  she  clung  to  him.  Oh,  I 
ought  to  have  helped  you,  and  I  have  made  it  harder. 
Can  you  ever  forgive  me  ?' 

'  There  is  nothing  to  forgive,'  he  said.  '  You  have 
only  told  me  what  I  knew  before — that  I  am  weak 
and  cowardly.' 

'  No,  no !'  she  sobbed.  '  You  are  brave.  I  believe 
that  you  are  doing  the  hardest  thing,  the  noblest 
thing.' 

His  hand  stole  softly  over  her  hair.  He  stroked  it 
very  tenderly  as  she  stood  clinging  to  him  with  her 
face  buried.  At  last  he  said  slowly : 

'  Do  you  remember  these  lines,  dearest  ? — 


284  THE  SEETHING  POT 

'  "  We  are  here  as  on  a  darkling  plain 

Swept  with  confused  alarms  of  struggle  and  flight, 
Where  ignorant  armies  clash  by  night." 

She  looked  up  in  his  face,  and  there  was  a  gleam  in 
her  moist  eyes. 

'  Yes,'  she  said, '  and  I  remember  the  beginning  of 
the  passage,  too : 

1  "Ah,  love,  let  us  be  true 
To  one  another  1" ' 


CHAPTER  XXII 

AFTER  breakfast  next  morning,  when  Sir  Gerald 
expressed  his  intention  of  calling  on  John  O'Neill, 
Dennis  Browne  at  once  offered  to  accompany  him. 

'  It  is  a  longish  walk,'  said  Sir  Gerald,  anxious  to 
avoid  the  embarrassment  of  Browne's  presence  at  the 
interview  he  looked  forward  to.  '  I  hardly  think  you 
will  care  for  it.1 

'I  would  walk  miles  and  miles  for  the  sake  of 
another  interview  with  Mr.  O'Neill,'  Browne  declared. 
*I  met  him  once,  you  know,  at  dinner  here.  He 
evidently  took  a  dislike  to  me  at  first  sight,  or  perhaps 
he  was  prejudiced  against  my  reputation.  He  treated 
me  with  the  frankest  rudeness  and  contempt.  He 
really  made  me  quite  angry,  a  sensation  I  had  not 
enjoyed  for  years.  I  should  so  much  like  to  get  it 
renewed.  I'm  sure  it  must  be  very  good  for  a  man  to 
feel  angry.  I  have  no  actual  medical  authority  for 
saying  so,  but  I  imagine  that  anger  promotes  the 
activity  of  the  liver.  I  know  that  the  morning  after 
Mr.  O'Neill  irritated  me  I  felt  quite  unusually  cheerful 
and  light-hearted.  Do  you  think  he  will  treat  me 
with  contempt  to-day  ?' 

285 


286  THE  SEETHING  TOT 

'As  you  appear  to  like  it,  I  hope  he  will,'  said 
Sir  Gerald.  Browne  smiled  with  evident  satisfac- 
tion. '  But  do  you  think  it  is  fair  to  go  to  a 
man's  house  with  the  deliberate  intention  of  bait- 
ing him  ?' 

'Last  time,'  said  Browne,  'I  thought  he  was  baiting 
me.  I  think  it  is  rather  nice  of  me  to  go  to  see  him. 
It's  quite  early  Christian  of  me.  Isn't  it,  Lady 
Geoghegan  ?  I  am  offering  the  other  cheek  to  the 
smiter.' 

They  found  O'Dwyer  in  O'Neill's  study  when  they 
entered  it.  He  was  standing  before  the  fire,  leaning 
one  elbow  on  the  chimney-piece  and  biting  his  finger- 
nails. In  his  other  hand  was  a  pipe  which  had  been 
lit,  but  allowed  to  go  out  almost  immediately.  Sir 
Gerald  introduced  Dennis  Browne  to  him,  but 
O'Dwyer  was  evidently  unaware  of  the  poet's  repu- 
tation, for  he  merely  nodded  to  him  without 
speaking. 

I  am  delighted,'  said  Browne,  'to  make  your 
acquaintance.  I  have  often  heard  of  you.  You  are 
a  passionate  and  reckless  lover  of  the  Dark  Rosaleen. 
I  envy  and  respect  you  for  it.  I  myself  am  not 
insensible  to  her  charms ;  but  I  am,  I  regret  to  say, 
constitutionally  timid.'  He  sighed  as  he  spoke. 
'  You,  as  I  understand  from  Sir  Gerald  Geoghegan, 
contemplate  achieving  the  consummation  of  your 
passion  without  the  blessing  of  the  Church.  I  envy 
you.  I  can  imagine  no  more  rapturous  situation. 
But  will  the  lady  consent  ?' 


THE  SEETHING  POT  287 

O'Dwyer  stared  at  him,  and  then  turned  to  Sir 
Gerald. 

'Do  you  happen  to  know  what  your  friend  is 
talking  about  ?' 

'  I  beg  your  pardon,'  said  Browne,  with  an  expres- 
sion of  benign  patience.  '  I  ought  to  have  made  my 
meaning  plainer.  The  Dark  Rosaleen,  sometimes 
called  Kathaleen  ny-Houlahan,  is  a  poetic  personi- 
fication of  Ireland.  I  should  not  like  you  to 
think,  Mr.  O'Dwyer,  that  I  for  a  moment  suspected 
you ' 

'  Can  I  speak  to  you  alone  for  a  few  minutes  ?'  said 
O'Dwyer  to  Sir  Gerald.  'I  have  something  rather 
important  to  say  to  you.' 

'Pray  don't  allow  me  to  be  in  the  way,'  said 
Browne.  '  I  shall  step  outside  and  look  at  the  view. 
Not  that  I  admire  this  West  of  Ireland  scenery  in  the 
least.  The  contrasts  are  so  blatantly  obvious.  The 
sea  is  quite  flat,  and  the  mountains  stick  up  so  into 
the  sky.  I  hate  things  that  stick  up  in  a  dogmatic 
way.  These  mountains  give  me  the  impression  of 
doing  it  on  purpose  to  annoy.  Now,  I  like  a  brook 
and  trees.  There  is  a  nice  droopy  kind  of  tree — I 
forget  its  name — which  looks  depressed,  as  if  the 
constant  cheerfulness  of  the  brook  rather  bored  it.' 

He  opened  the  window  as  he  spoke,  and  retired 
gracefully  on  to  the  lawn. 

'  Who  is  he  ?'  asked  O'Dwyer. 

'He's  a  poet  and  a  dramatist.  At  present  he  is 
writing  a  play  which  is  afterwards  to  be  a  novel.  His 


288  THE  SEETHING  POT 

name  is  Dennis  Browne.  You  must  have  heard  of 
him.' 

'Yes,  I  have  heard  of  him.  I  did  not  connect 
his  name  with  his  work  when  you  introduced  him. 
I  wonder  whether  he  has  got  through  life  so  far 
without  being  horsewhipped.  I  should  be  su prised 
to  hear  he  has.  But  he  does  not  matter.  O'Neill 
is  ill.' 

His  tone  startled  Sir  Gerald. 

'  Is  it  serious  ?'  he  asked. 

'  It  is,'  said  O'Dwyer — '  very  serious  indeed.  He 
came  home  last  night  shivering  and  feverish.  Mrs. 
O'Neill  got  alarmed,  and  sent  for  a  doctor  early  this 
morning.  It  turns  out  to  be  a  bad  attack  of  pneumonia 
with  various  complications.  They  have  telegraphed 
to  Dublin  for  another  doctor.' 

'  My  God !'  said  Sir  Gerald.     '  Poor  Mrs.  O'Neill !' 

'  She  is  a  wonderful  woman,'  said  O'Dwyer.  '  I  saw 
her  when  I  came  up  here  this  morning.  It  was  just 
after  the  doctor  left.  I  knew  from  what  she  said  that 
he  had  given  her  very  little  hope,  but  she  took  it 
without  a  sign  of  breaking  down.  She  asked  me  to 
see  you  and  arrange  things.' 

'Come  back  and  lunch  with  me.  We  can  talk 
things  over  afterwards — that  is,  if  you  think  you  can 
stand  Browne  for  an  hour  or  two.  He  is  sure  to 
leave  in  the  afternoon.' 

'Oh,  I  can  stand  Dennis  Browne  all  right,'  said 
O'Dwyer.  '  The  question  is,  whether  Browne  will  be 
able  to  stand  me.  I'm  not  in  the  mood  for  tolerating 


THE  SEETHING  POT  289 

idiots.     Perhaps  I'd  better  not  accept  your  invitation 
I  might  make  myself  unpleasant.' 

'  If  you  make  yourself  unpleasant  enough  to  turn 
Browne  out  of  the  house  before  luncheon,  I  shall  not 
break  my  heart.  But  I  don't  believe  anyone, 
except  O'Neill,  could  shake  the  man's  infernal  self- 
conceit.' 

They  joined  Browne  on  the  lawn. 

1 1  have  been  obliged,'  he  said,  '  to  turn  my  back 
on  the  view.  It  became  quite  intolerable.  The  sea 
to-day  is  not  only  quite  flat,  but  muddy.  I  am  not 
a  connoisseur  in  oceans,  but  I  own  I  should  have 
expected  the  Atlantic  to  be  green  or  blue  or  the 
Homeric  purple.  I  am  greatly  disappointed  in  it. 
Are  we  going  straight  home  again  ?  I  have  not  seen 
the  great  Mr.  O'Neill.  Am  I  not  to  have  the  pleasure 
of  meeting  him  ?' 

'  Mr.  O'Neill  is  ill,'  said  Sir  Gterald — '  seriously  ill. 
We  are  very  anxious  about  him.' 

'  Really,  I  am  greatly  distressed,'  said  Browne. 
'And  you  say  he  is  seriously  ill.  I  can't  imagine 
anything  more  unfortunate,  more  entirely  inartistic, 
than  his  death  just  at  present.' 

Neither  Sir  Gerald  nor  O'Dwyer  had  formally 
admitted  the  possibility  of  O'Neill's  death,  even  in 
their  own  minds.  Browne's  reference  to  it,  and  still 
more  the  way  in  which  he  made  it,  jarred  on  them. 
O'Dwyer  stood  still  and  ejaculated,  'Damn  !'  Browne 
looked  at  him  with  an  expression  of  innocent 
wonder. 

19 


290  THE  SEETHING  POT 

'Of  course,'  he  said,  'no  one  would  think  of 
blaming  O'Neill,  especially  if  this  illness  should 

end Sir  Gerald  said  it  was  serious,  you  know. 

I'm  sure  he  will  feel  just  as  annoyed  as  we  do.  The 
whole  thing  has  been  badly  managed ;  I  mean,  of 
course,  by  Providence  or  Fate,  or  whatever  you  like 
to  call  the  power  that  arranges  these  matters.  There 
has  been  a  complete  disregard  of  the  dramatic  re- 
quirements of  the  situation.  We  had  got  to  such  an 
interesting  crisis.  You  gentlemen  were  fighting  for 
Ireland  against  the  Church.  I  think  you  would  have 
been  beaten;  but  there  were  splendid  possibilities 
about  the  final  scene.  Now,  in  the  very  middle  of 
the  action  the  principal  person  steps  off  the  stage, 
and  very  likely  won't  return  at  all.' 

Sir  Gerald  gripped  O'Dwyer's  arm. 

'  Let  me  speak  to  him,'  he  whispered.  '  Mr.  Browne,' 
he  said  aloud,  '  Mr.  O'Dwyer  and  I  feel  great  anxiety 
about  our  friend.  To  us  Mr.  O'Neill's  illness  is  a 
personal  sorrow.  I  am  afraid  we  shall  be  very  bad 
company  for  you.  We  shall  not  be  able  to  appreciate 
your  conversation  as  it  deserves.  Perhaps  you  would 
like  me  to  order  the  trap  to  take  you  home  at  once.' 

'  The  very  thing  I  was  going  to  suggest  myself.  I 
am  afraid  I  am  not  sympathetic ;  but  the  fact  is,  that 
I  never  could  see  the  force  of  that  aphorism  of  King 
Solomon's  about  a  house  of  mourning  being  better 
than  a  house  of  mirth.  My  experience  is  that,  on 
these  melancholy  occasions,  meals  are  apt  to  be 
neglected.  The  cook  gets  into  the  way  of  thinking 


THE  SEETHING  POT  291 

that  any  old  scraps  will  do,  and  nobody  rebukes  her. 
Yes,  if  you  and  Mr.  O'Dwyer  really  mean  to  mourn, 
I  think  I  shall  go  at  once.' 

The  Dublin  doctor  arrived  in  Clogher  at  one 
o'clock.  He  saw  his  patient,  consulted  with  his 
colleague,  and  left  again  at  two.  In  his  opinion,  there 
was  no  hope  of  recovery  for  John  O'Neill.  It  was 
with  his  verdict  before  them  that  Sir  Gerald  and 
O'Dwyer  discussed  the  future. 

'  He  was  a  very  great  man/  said  Sir  Gerald. 

I  Yes,'  said  O'Dwyer,  '  one  of  the  greatest  Irishmen. 
He  might  have  been  the  very  greatest,  but  he  made 
one  mistake — a  mistake  so  important  that  it  spoiled 
his  work/ 

'  I  am  surprised  to  hear  you  own  that  he  was  mis- 
taken at  all.  I  thought  that  you  v^ere  a  whole-hearted 
follower  of  his.' 

'His  position  was  in  reality  an  impossible  one. 
Nothing  made  it  seem  reasonable  except  the  wonderful 
force  of  his  own  will.  He  stood  half-way  between 
Isaac  Butt  and  Wolfe  Tone,  between  a  conservative 
loyalty  to  ancient  ideals  on  the  one  hand,  and  re- 
publicanism on  the  other.  I  have  often  wondered 
which  he  really  wanted — the  Irish  Constitution  of 
1782,  or  a  Declaration  of  Independence,  like  that  of 
the  United  States.' 

I 1  think  you  have  described  his  attitude  rightly  ; 
but  are  you  sure  it  was  a  mistake?     Such  a  com- 
promise has  its  value — at  least,   for    a  time.     For 
instance '    He  paused. 

19—2 


THE  SEETHING  POT 

'  For  instance  ' — it  was  O'Dwyer  who  completed  his 
sentence — '  it  enabled  him  to  draw  you  into  his  party 
from  one  side,  and  me  from  the  other.  You  need  not 
have  hesitated  to  say  so.  I  am  not  afraid  of  any  name 
you  can  give  me.  I  am  a  rebel  in  all  but  opportunity.' 

'  That  is  what  I  meant.  Surely  it  was  something  to 
have  drawn  us  together.  I  consider  that  we  are  types.' 

'  That  is  no  doubt  trua  But  have  you  considered 
what  was  to  happen  afterwards?  Such  an  alliance 
could  not  last  for  very  long.  What,  for  instance,  is 
to  happen  now  ?  I  do  not  think  that  you  and  I  can 
go  on  fighting  this  election  together.' 

'  No,'  said  Sir  Gerald.  '  I  went  down  to  O'Neill's 
house  to-day  to  tell  him  that  I  must  withdraw.' 

'  I  am  glad  he  never  heard  it.  It  would  have  hurt 
him,  for  he  liked  you.' 

There  was  a  long  pause.  O'Dwyer  smoked  steadily, 
with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  fire.  Sir  Gerald  drew  his 
chair  closer  to  Hester,  who  sat  near  him,  and  watched 
her  face.  The  rain  beat  heavily  against  the  windows. 
A  gathering  storm  moaned  in  the  wide  chimney. 
The  room  grew  slowly  darker.  At  last  Sir  Gerald 
spoke  again. 

'  What  do  yon  mean  to  do  ?'  he  said. 

1 1  ?'  said  O'Dwyer.  '  I  shall  resign  my  seat  in 
Parliament,  of  course.  Nothing  took  me  there  but 
O'Neill,  and  now  there  is  nothing  to  keep  me  there.' 

'  And  then,'  asked  Hester,  '  what  will  you  do  ?' 

He  thought  he  saw  a  great  pity  for  him  in  her  face 
when  she  spoke.  It  touched  him. 


THE  SEETHING  POT  293 

'  It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  be  interested  in  me*/  he 
said.  'I  shall  go  the  States.  I  have  some  ex- 
perience as  a  journalist.  I  have  no  doubt  that  I  shall 
be  able  to  earn  enough  to  keep  me.' 

'  That  is  not  what  I  meant,'  said  Hester.  '  I  do 
not  think  you  will  be  content  just  to  live.  What  will 
you  do  ?' 

'  There  is  very  little  that  I  can  do.  I  shall  try  to 
organize  our  people  there  and  keep  the  Irish  spirit 
alive  in  them.  I  shall  teach  them,  if  they  will 
listen  to  me,  to  hate  England  and  everything 
English.' 

Hester  shivered.  This  confession  of  faith  in  a 
gospel  of  hatred  came  so  simply  from  his  lips  that  it 
seemed  terrible,  much  more  terrible  than  any  flight 
of  rhetoric. 

'Chiefly,  of  course,'  said  O'Dwyer,  'my  work  will 
be  to  wait  and  watch.' 

'  To  wait  for  what  ?'  asked  Sir  Gerald. 

'  For  our  opportunity.  No  empire  which  the  world 
has  ever  seen  has  had  in  it  the  element  of  perma- 
nence. Least  of  all  does  it  seem  possible  for  the 
British  Empire  to  last.  Some  day  a  shot  will  strike 
the  hulk  between  the  wind  and  water.  That  will  be 
our  opportunity.  The  final  catastrophe  will  coma 
with  incredible  swiftness,  because  there  will  be  a 
people  here  at  England's  very  doors  who  hate  her. 
These  enemies  of  hers  will  also  be  across  the  sea 
under  other  flags  and  under  her  own  flag.  They 
will  be  even  in  the  streets  of  her  own  great  towns. 


294  THE  SEETHING  POT 

It  will  not  matter  that  they  do  not  know  each  other, 
for  there  will  be  one  desire  in  all  their  hearts.  For 
myself,  I  have  only  one  prayer — that  I  may  live  long 
enough  to  see  the  day.' 

'  I  cannot  hope  for  such  a  time,'  said  Sir  Gerald. 
'I  think — I  am  sure — that  I  love  Ireland,  too.  I 
rather  wish  to  think  of  her  as  taking  her  part  in 
guiding  the  great  Empire  which,  after  all,  she  has 
had  her  share  in  building  up.' 

'  Have  you  not  read  history  ?  How  is  such  a  hope 
possible  after  the  story  of  the  last  seven  hundred 
years  ?  England  has  worked  for  our  extinction. 
The  instinct  which  led  her  to  destroy  us  utterly  was  a 
true  one.  Ifc  is  impossible  that  her  people  and  ours 
can  be  knit  together.  One  or  other  must  disappear, 
and  so  far,  in  spite  of  fire,  and  sword,  and  exile,  we 
are  alive  and  strong.  Our  race  persists.' 

Sir  Gerald  realized  the  force  and  truth  of  what 
was  said,  and  had  no  answer  to  make.  It  was 
O'Dwyer  who  broke  the  silence  again. 

'  This  is  gloomy  talking,'  he  said.  '  Let  us  turn  to 
something  brighter.  Let  us  talk  about  your  future. 
I  believe  you  when  you  say  that  you  love  Ireland,  too. 
What  will  you  do  for  her  ?' 

'  I  do  not  think,'  said  Sir  Gerald,  '  that  we  shall 
escape  the  gloom  by  talking  of  what  I  shall  do.' 

O'Dwyer  looked  slowly  round.  He  seemed  to  be 
trying  to  appreciate  the  value  of  the  comfort  and 
luxury  which  surrounded  him.  His  eyes  rested 
finally  on  Hester. 


THE  SEETHING  POT  295 

'  Yet  I  think,'  he  said, '  that  your  life  ought  to  be  a 
nappy  one.' 

'I  am  going  to  say  what  will  sound  to  you  like 
nonsense,'  said  Sir  Gerald.  '  The  misery  of  my  life 
lies  in  this — that  it  will  be  happy.  I  shall  live  here. 
I  shall  be  loved,  and  warmed,  and  fed.  I  shall  grow 
slowly  older,  and  hi  the  end  I  shall  die  peaceably.  I 
shall  be  quite  happy,  but  I  shall  do  nothing.  In 
the  end  I  suppose  I  shall  come  to  not  even  love 
Ireland.' 

Hester  took  his  hand  in  hers,  and  held  it  tightly 
while  he  spoke. 

'  I  can  understand,'  said  O'Dwyer,  '  that,  after  all, 
I  need  not  envy  you.' 

Two  days  afterwards  John  O'Neill  died. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

DESMOND  O'HARA  had  a  playful  habit,  not  always 
appreciated  by  his  friends,  of  answering  his  private 
letters  in  the  columns  of  his  paper.  In  this  way  he 
added  a  personal  interest  to  The  Oritic,  and  knit  his 
circle  of  readers  into  a  kind  of  large  house-party. 
He  frequently  accepted  invitations,  for  instance,  in 
this  public  way,  and  it  was  amusing  to  read  that  he 
intended  to  spend  a  week  with  Mrs.  R  in  Donegal, 
or  three  days  with  'dear  F.'  in  Wicklow,  with  the 
proviso  that  he  was  not  to  be  taken  out  for  picnics  on 
wet  days. 

V 

Thus,  it  happened  that  it  was  in  the  columns  of 
The  Critic  that  Sir  Gerald  found  the  answer  to  the 
appeal  for  advice  which  he  had  sent  the  day  before 
the  disastrous  fiasco  on  the  road  to  Ross. 

'  Dear  G.  G.,'  he  read,  '  I  can  sympathize  with  you 
in  your  present  position.  I  am  on  the  whole  inclined 
to  think,  as  you  evidently  do,  that  at  present  politics 
are  no  game  for  a  gentleman  to  play.  Do  you  ever 
read  the  prophet  Jeremiah  ?  Probably  not.  I  read 
a  few  chapters  last  night,  and  came  across  a  verse 
which  seemed  to  me  to  apply  to  the  present  condition 

296 


THE  SEETHING  POT  297 

of  Ireland.  "  I  see  a  seething  pot,  and  the  face  of  it 
is  towards  the  north."  I  remember,  dear  G.  G.,  that, 
when  I  was  staying  with  you  in  your  beautiful  West, 
we  one  day  took  shelter  from  a  shower  in  a  peasant's 
cabin.  Although  it  was  summer,  there  was  a  great 
fire  of  turf  piled  up  into  the  wide  chimney.  A  pot,  a 
real  iron  caldron,  the  like  of  which  one  does  not  see 
in  the  degenerate  kitchens  of  civilization,  hung  over 
the  fire  from  an  iron  hook.  It  boiled — "  seethed," 
Jeremiah  would  have  said — violently.  Now  and  then 
it  overflowed,  and  some  of  its  contents  fell  hissing 
into  the  fire.  I  remember  that  the  smell  of  it  did  not 
strike  us  as  savoury.  I  understand  that  it  is  the 
least  pleasant  portion  of  the  contents — the  scum,  m 
fact — which  boils  over  the  edge  of  these  pots  on  to  the 
feet  of  the  unwary.  The  recollection  of  that  pot 
helped  me  to  understand  the  vision  of  the  prophet, 
and  gave  me  an  illustration  of  Ireland  and  her 
politics.  For  we  are  a  seething  pot — we,  the  Irish 
people. 

'  Just  now  it  is  the  scum  which  is  coming  malodor- 
ously to  the  surface,  and  perhaps  scalding  your  hands 
and  feet.  Yet  within  the  pot  there  is  good  stuff.  It  may 
be  dinner  "  for  the  childer,"  to  make  them  grow  into 
men  and  women ;  it  may  be  food  for  the  men  to  make 
them  strong ;  it  may  be  fattening  for  the  less  honour- 
able beasts  of  the  field.  It  is,  at  all  events,  the  raw 
material  of  life.  Far  better  it  is  to  be  sitting  beside  a 
seething  pot  than  a  stagnant  pool.  Dear  G.  G.,  let 
us  keep  the  pot  seething  if  we  can.  Let  us  do  our 


298  THE  SEETHING  POT 

little  part  in  this  dear  Ireland  of  ours  to  stir  men 
into  the  activities  of  thought  and  ambition.  If  we 
get  our  toes  burnt  and  our  fingers  grimy,  let  us 
put  up  with  it  bravely.  If  there  is  a  nasty  smell, 
we  shall  remember  that  there  is  good  food  in  the 
caldron. 

'  Do  you  remember  the  first  time  we  met  each 
other,  nearly  a  year  ago  now  ?  I  fancy  that  it  was  I 
who  first  showed  you  how  the  Irish  pot  was  seething. 
I  think  that  you  regarded  some  of  the  things  I  said  to 
you  as  very  foolish.  No,  dear  G.  G.,  you  did  not  say 
so.  You  were  too  polite  for  that.  I  only  guessed 
that  you  thought  so.  Among  these  foolish  things 
there  were  two  especially.  I  said  that  Ireland  wanted 
her  gentlemen,  and  that  Ireland  wanted  a  King.  Do 
you  still  think  me  foolish  ?  Perhaps  I  am.  But  I  am 
surer  than  ever  now  that  it  is  only  a  King,  a  King 
with  an  aristocracy  to  help  him,  who  can  deal  with  our 
seething  pot.  Only  he  must  really  be  a  King,  and  he 
must  be  brave  enough  to  take  off  the  spectacles  which 
official  people  put  upon  the  eyes  of  Kings,  and  look 
straight  at  us  with  the  good  clear  eyes  that  God  has 
given  him.  And  he  must  surely  be  the  King  of 
Ireland,  not  a  foreigner  looking  curiously  at  a  strange 
people.  Shall  we  ever  find  such  a  King  ?  Sometimes 
I  am  not  very  hopeful,  and  the  pot  seethes  very 
confusedly.  Yet  I  think,  dear  G.  G.,  that  we  ought 
to  hope. 

'  You  will  not  be  angry  with  me  for  my  parable  of 
the  seething  pot.  It  is  not  mine,  you  know,  but  the 


THE  SEETHING  POT  299 

prophet's.     I  have  only  fitted  it  to  Ireland — our  dear 

Ireland,  which  we  love  best  of  all  things,  in  spite 

Would  we  love  Ireland  BO  well  as  we  do  if  we  had 
not  got  to  love  her  in  spite  of  her  breaking  our 
hearts  ?' 


THE   END 


HI  UNO    AND  SONS,    *TD.,    PRINTERS,    GUILDFOR* 


A     000286512     9 


